Cerrelius the Supranatural

Happy End of the Year!
You folks!

Just Go To Bed

Ducks go across bridges to get to bed. Monkeys fight monkeys to go to bed. The poor and the drunk and flea-bitten zebras whisper in caves to go to bed. Turds go to bed in turd beds. Whistles and weasels and skinny umbrellas do not have beds but sleep upside down on hooks in the laps of a floating burgundy Spanish class. These thoughts do not belong in beds. They have burned their pajamas and sent their pillow cases flapping in the hurricane raging outside this tinted window. We keep turnips and toenails underneath the bed springs. Ducks go across bridges to get to bed. Sight stretches out like fitted sheets over streets and lamps and bottles and Walgreens you drove to get the toothbrush to go to bed. Go to bed. Rest like warm bears near rivers and trees made of rings. Go to bed many times and get rings and grow thicker in little layers. Denser or flabbier or jollier or burnt. Go to bed and follow the daisy chain. Patterns are getting smarter. Repeat to the same. Ducks go across bridges to get to bed. T-shirt geniuses in illustrious basements like outer space with glowing stars in the carpet. In the carpet. We all belong to the carpet. Flatten yourself out on the carpet because we all belong to the carpet. Go to bed. Go to bed. Buses need to be driven and coffee needs to be made and groceries need to be checked out and bagged and shirts need to be folded and rooms need to be cleaned and miles need to be traveled and messages need to be sent. Go to bed. There's no attention for you here. But you can look. Go to bed. Ducks go across bridges to get to bed. Many feeble millipedes fear going to bed. Just go to bed. Look all you like but go to bed. There's another time. After the bed. Hungry spiders sleep in silk. There aren't enough words to justify the alternative. Go to bed. The alternative needs no justification. Tumbling pillars and clouds of dust. Ragged breathing sleeps in sad rooms. Just go to bed. Ducks go across bridges to get to bed in a little line and stay in line and always in line and moving ahead. Always moving ahead in a line. Enjoy the walk because it doesn't stop. Just go to bed.

Grapefralaxy

There are whole worlds in grapefruits. Whole rooms and echoing halls and windows stretching to the thin sky in a grapefruit. I mean, paying attention to a grapefruit--whole or split in half or tearing the thick chunks. There's a wind in grapefruit. A gale carrying thoughts that make the body clench and shudder. A streak of shimmering drops sent down in a rush from the mountain top--stinging the eyes--perfect thin needles piercing and opening every pore. Wracking whole body breaths almost enough to break the nerves and burst the lungs. Lying flat like the drops spread thin in scented circles and then there's a calm. A centered, whole voice speaking in sense from above.

Triggers. Strings.

We come attached to distant parts of scattered worlds. With senses to search and hands to pull, legs to carry, and hearts to follow. The light bounces and bends and sends us out to see its shines.

Tall and Sheep

Once about a time ago, a shepherd was tending to his flock on the fields that sat in the jagged shadow of the mountains. And he was very bored. He was long and tall with ruddy cheeks and good bone structure and bored. The sheep tore at the grass with their hard flat teeth and chewed it and chewed it right in the front of shepherd--mocking him indifferently. It was very quiet aside from the obnoxious chewing of the sheep. There wasn't even a breeze strong enough to carry the sighs of the shepherd away from him. So, the sighs settled in pile around his feet. If a wolf came, the shepherd would try to beat it with his shepherd-staff. That would be exciting. But, then the shepherd considered that wolves would probably travel in packs and easily overwhelm the feeble shepherd and eat him and he would be dead. After a certain amount of time of imagining his dead body--this also bored the shepherd. A fox would probably go after one of his sheep alone. But, a fox wouldn't attack when the shepherd was nearby. The shepherd wished he had a companion like a dog or a wench--something better than the sheep. The sheep he had were boring because they were the sheep he had. Better sheep would be less boring--or even much worse sheep. Sheep that were attracted to land mines or possessed or stupid and easily frightened--any sheep that weren't his sheep. But the shepherd had his own sheep and that made him bored.

Meeting of the minds

The weird egg thing is kinda like this thing on the wall in my shower at home.

The dinosaur in a motorcycle/Daft Punk helmet talking with the Big Nosed Man is exactly what it is.

Ghost of Christmas Merry

Thanks to Christmas, more tablet drawrings to come!

This is the smiling ghost of childish Christmas glee. Because, a child's understanding of this holiday is probably kind of unsettling.

With the romanticizing of fat burglars and all...

misfortune seemed his lot...

Just in Time for Nothing!

For snack today we have a pile of puke. Also featuring a medley of eyeballs and baby teeth. Also featuring toenail clippings and a glue stick from 1962. Also featuring a cup of blood (made from concentrate, gluten-free, some pulp). Also featuring rodent bones pulled out of a guy's hand. Also featuring earthworms, nightcrawlers, wormearths, and crawlnighters. The napkin is also available for consumption and made from the recycled remains an ancient redwood we chopped down. Ladies and gentlemen, do not criticize the man behind the glass wall. He is only trying to help you. We promised you snack and you have been given snack. You have not been promised happiness. You have not been promised satisfaction. You have not been promised nutrition, substitutions, or revolutions. You have been promised snack. Snack is optional. This does not mean you have options. Like all things, you only have one option for Snack: accept or decline. Snack will not be recalled. Snack will not be warmed-up. Snack will not be chilled or served with a smile. Ladies and gentlemen, the snack will not crack the glass when thrown. I repeat, the snack will not crack the glass when thrown. You have one option: accept or decline.

We Had Other Things Too

Every year the Wooly Worm Buffalo trek across the Great Seltzer Ridge. The path is steep and craggy and some Buffalo Worms are lost in the crossing. Predators have karate-chop action and can strike without warning. No one knows why these creatures traverse this dangerous terrain every year, without fail. The Worm Buffalo do not tell anyone their reasons. They do not even discuss the reasons amongst themselves. Scientists know this through advanced surveillance techniques and outright attempted bribes. It may be fair to say that there is no reason for the journey. The landscape demands it. These ancient places beckon and we, as all creatures do, silently, unknowingly, respond. The unknown is the unknown is the unknown is the root--the system of roots branching and splitting and spreading. We are the buds and the bugs. Pulled up and out from the dirt through untraceable tunnels and cast into the sun. At what cost are we risen? For what purpose are we assembled and set in motion. To create rhythm. To serve the beat and move in time with the vibrating light--born out of frequencies and resonating with the lowest, largest, deepest hum of the Underwave.  

Marshmallow Snowmans

The wind swept up crunchy leaves like cold crisp corpses dancing with butterfly wings. I was standing on the gravel path, bundled up with only my eyes exposed and snot running down to my scarf. She was sitting on the bench wearing only a t-shirt and purple-colored pants. The squirrels were fat balls of fur with tall tails. The trees were skeletal and stunningly bare. They were attractive. The trees were. I was like a bloated, polyester bag of garbage. She was shivering. I didn't say anything and my my mouth was covered by the scarf and the jacket so my voice would've been muffled anyway. I was like two floating eyes. She was very attractive. Built like a block with a strong nose. She had a bright face and hard right angles. Her cheeks were turning red from the wind. She wasn't looking at me. She was turned away from me and looking at I-don't-know-what. I stood there, watching her. She had pointy elbows and pointy wrists and clavicles that weren't "jutting" but still pronounced. She was very beautiful. I didn't say anything to her.

5 Fingered Hand of Man

Good. evil. strange. beards. justice.

3 Noses???

Little Girl: What's he saying?
Me: Nothing
LG: What are those words?
Me: He's not saying those words. Those words are tattoo'd on his upper lip.
LG: Yeah, but what's he saying?
Me: Nothing.
LG: Nuh-uh!
Me: The words are written on him. He's not saying anything.
LG: No, they aren't. What's he saying?
Me: You tell me!
LG: I don't know.
Me:....
LG:....

I made a house!

Houses by cliffs are cool.

Merry Christmasween!

This blog is now a repository for snacktime menus.

Science boy looks like science! Explosions!

Here is a dolphin boy.

With a Fork!

A wall? You put up a wall? Why do I feel that it's not to hold things in but built to prevent me from seeing how little is behind it?

Is it in anyway related to having to serve apple sauce with a fork?

Meager creations indeed.

The iceberg theory must certainly hold true in this case:

If you leave out important things or events that you know about, the story is strengthened. If you leave or skip something because you do not know it, the story will be worthless.

Alien Santa Dude

We're on a rocket to the moon! Alien Santa? What gifts do you bring to the boys and girls of Planet Earth?

Nothing?

You give them nothing? You have no toys or games or inflatable houses for even the saintliest of children? How can this be, Alien Santa?

You must teach them to believe and do not punish them for their ignorance. Appear in their dreams! Appear at night when they lie awake all alone. Alien Santa--an overactive imagination is a terrible thing to not exploit for notoriety.

Foonicornucopium

The world is a very big place. And there are stranger things in it than are dreamed of in your commercials and sassy t-shirts. Hop on the back of the unicorn leaping across the spreading void and over the rainbow road. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears clean. The broken bits and shattered shards are yours to collect. And assemble. Strings of fancy tie the busy parts of things along.

or something like that.

Cheese and Grains

Burgers and ant claws lobster fill.

Menu!

For you!

Grey Pants

I was running in a snow storm today. And it was very unpleasant. Snow was getting in my eyes. It was an icy snow. And a woman was delivering mail in the snow. For about a mile or so as I was running she would get ahead of me and then stop at a mailbox and I would catch up to her and pass her and then she would pass me until she reached the next mailbox.

And we went on like this for a ways. In a snow storm. It wasn't all that interesting, really. Unless you are a kind of selfish person like I am. Then you can't help but wonder what she thought when she saw me.

Probably nothing. It's hard to impress people. You shouldn't try it. You should try to be impressed by others. Way more satisfying to be impressed.

I'm impressed with that mail lady. Driving around in her white CR-V. Delivering packages and letters in all kinds of weather. It was the middle of the day, too. That'd be a sweet job if you could sleep in for it. Any job would be a sweet job if you could sleep in. If you can sleep-in and have a job, I'm impressed by that.

I heard that Michael Bubble-y song today, "Haven't Met You Yet" and the chorus has a part where he goes, "I promise you kid, that I'll give so much more than I get--"

Is that really a good promise? To give so much more than you get? Does that mean the other person is getting so much more than they give? If giving is better than getting then aren't you denying the other person the better thing by taking more of the good thing. You're getting more giving.

Shouldn't it be, "I'll give just as much as I get?"

It lessens the other persons contribution by either claiming that they can't give as much or that the singer giving capabilities far surpass anything the other person could give.

This was a great post and I'm really excited about it. Off you go into the internet!

Post Apocalyptic Wasteland run by robot spiders

And salsa.

Plotting Along

Ran a PR for 5k today. 15:48.

Rearranged the apartment. It looks much larger now. More floor space.

Took the GRE on Saturday. 164 Verbal and 154 Math.

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Things To Do:

-Final for Shakespeare Class
-Apply to be a student next semester
-Write Essay and Resume and Finish Application for School of Ed.
-Run More
-Make...SOMETHING!

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I am ready for changes! This is a good thing!

Hi my name is Brak!

If you want snack then poot on down to Brak! Poodles.

Gregorn and Space Hair

Trust the reach. Hands and fans and glowing bands. Oof ow oof ow!

Boredom is a gift.

Hostile Wookie Embellishment

Yelling screaming throwing- getting chopped in half. Chiefly the enemy of all that is unbesmirched. Shards of flaming vitriol and detritus from the grizzled backs of smokey mountain ridges. All this in a boiling sweating cauldron and bones and nails and teeth too.

Different Ways for Different Days

Changes will change me. Rabies will give me itself. But the only thing I can depend on in this warbly world,

Is the thoughts I haven't even thunk.

I bet that you look on the dance floor

Kids like to live in the moment. Or, they have to. It's kind of frustrating for them. They're like little mechanics.

Dork and My On

The carrot of my dreams never comes true.

True expression is never. Only pies, prunes, and cheez.

No Cake Problems

This picture can't survive lava or criticism. But it can teach you how to love if you open you heart door to it.

For snack todayyy...

Crickety Crakket

And then, Burt (the main character) went into the kitchen and made himself some toast. He ate the toast. Standing up. In front of the toaster. He was sleepy. He was always sleepy in the morning. 

Sometimes he'd wake up at around 5 in the morning and be completely awake. But, he didn't have to wake up until 6. So, he'd just lie there and feel like it'd be the easiest thing in the world to wake up and do all the stuff he had to do.

But he always went back to sleep. When his alarm went off at 6 he was incredibly tired and had to force himself out of bed. What kind of cruel trick is that?

Why did it have to be so hard to get out of bed? Should it be hard to get out of bed?

It should! It should be hard to get out of bed! This was his daily toll. His Sisyphean task. To roll his lumped mass out of bed only to have it come crashing down about 14 hours later. 

That was the moment where he chose to be a person for another day. No small choice. If the difficult of physically removing himself from the bed was indicative of the difficulty of the choice. There are so many things Burt is going to mess up. And so many things he's going to ruin forever. And yet he's going to matter so little.

It's like choosing to be a grain of sand in an hourglass. He is part of the process of covering up and obscuring everything that fell before him. And at the same time he is being covered and obscured. 

Plus it's just plain hard to get up! He's low blood-sugar. His brain is booting up. Physically it's hard.

Maybe, the difficulty of getting up makes the act worthwhile in itself. It gets down to something basic. That early in the day, there isn't enough time to think about and imagine the constructive things that can be worked on. There isn't enough time to rationalize or motivate. Even hunger or needing to go to the bathroom doesn't really jump-start the day.

There needs to be some kind of basic urge to just be present. If it wasn't hard to get up then that urge wouldn't mean as much. And if that's one thing that everybody has to endure then that's one reason to respect everyone that started their day.

Hey, it's hard getting up. You did that. That was difficult. Everything else you're bothering yourself with might be stupid and pointless and destructive or amazing or fantastic and it's probably different than the stuff I'm bothering myself with. But we did it. Here it is.

Hoo-rah. 

Mutual Confusing Hate

I'm pretty sure the girl I work with hates me. I'm pretty sure. She has every reason to. I don't really ever look at her or talk to her and I probably look morose whenever we're the only two people in the room together.

Fortunately there are normally about 30 kids in any room that we're both in so that creates enough of a distraction.

But, to be fair, in my mind, she's a terrible person. I don't think I've heard her ever engage in a conversation that doesn't consist mainly of one of three things:

-pointlessly arguing with the person she's talking to
-talking about something you buy or pay for or consume in some way
-complaining about something or someone

Those three things. That's a more fully-formed reason to not like her though. I've never really thought about it that way. But anyway, I don't like her. Can I work with her? Yes. But I don't like her.

That's not really the problem though. It's not like it's hard to dislike someone. My problem is being aware that, if she does hate me, she's completely justified in doing so. I'm not a nice person to her.

Almost every time I go to work I cling to the idea that I can dislike someone without simultaneously becoming like that person. A bitter person with nothing nice to say deserving of contempt.

It makes being mad at someone seem pointless and self-serving. I lower myself. Because, ultimately, it's my choice to be upset. She doesn't wield some awesome power of stupidity that forces me to hate her against all better judgement.

Maybe the best I can hope for is a suspension of judgement. Or more ignoring. I'm fine with her doing that to me. If I was a good person I would try to find some common ground or something. But, you don't have to like everyone. Maybe just be okay with knowing that everyone you don't like will think you're a big jerk. It's not like that's a point of pride though. It's just contributing to the amount of hate in the world. That's part of being a person. Contributing to hate and sadness. And then maybe you'll get some guilt and understanding if you're lucky. And then you become a better person. Maybe.

4114569870

I was biking home from work a few nights ago and I looked to my right and saw a woman running barefoot from her car into the street.

Then I looked forward and saw a deer crouched up against the curb about twenty feet in front of me. I get off my bike and move over to the sidewalk and watch the woman run up to the deer and say, "Hey little guy. You're okay. It's okay."

The deer, hearing this assurance, gets up and begins charging directly at me, as I'm straddling my bike. I don't know how close it got because I scrunched my face up like a weenie and turned away, preparing for the hit. But, I guess the deer had enough sense to stop and turn around and run back across the street in front of the cars that the barefoot woman had stopped. It made it across safely and disappeared.

I go back to biking and I see a guy who had been standing in front of me bring his cellphone back up to his ear and say, "Oh, it ran away. I guess it's okay now."

Then I went back to doing when I had been doing before all of this happened...

singing "Tomorrow" from Annie but reducing every word to one syllable

da sun cm ut, tmrru. burt yr bttm dalr dt, tmmru, der be...sun.


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What if I had been hit by that deer though? That would've made for a much better story.  And proper punishment for me butchering a song sung by a girl who has faith in the goodness of the world despite not having parents.

I went right back to singing it too.

duh sun kirm oot, tmroh. Brt yr bddm dalr durt, tmroh. Dur be...sun!

Beard Poem 4

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Melanie had heard from an old talking toad
that the way to the dragon was down Blubbergum Road.
And there, on the road, was the first enemy she faced.
It was the Blunnnnghderous Blechhh from Outer Space.
He said, "Puny Beard Warrior, prepare to be erased.
I'll crush you and smush you and I will leave no trace."

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
The Blunnnnghderous Blechhh was a gruesome sight to behold.
A tall, fat, mean, greasy monster dripping with mold.
He lurched at Melanie with his Spicy Skunk Fist
but Melanie's reflexes made the blow miss.
The Blech laughed, "Haha! You'll never suspect this!"
And he unleashed his Deadly Fuzzy Lip Kiss!

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Oh! Melanie gagged and choked and her lips were burning,
she was sick to her stomach and her breakfast was churning.
"You are a gross, slobbish, pig!" Melanie said with disdain.
"With stanky stank breath and a head with no brain!"
And Melanie's righteous scolding the Blech with great guilt-pains.
He fled weeping and sobbing while Melanie, standing strong, remained.

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And then that happened.

Poogy the Giant Dinosaur

We traced this from an overhead projector! Cool times! I made the left food and the open hand!

I am the Maxx! (Note: claw has been moved to index finger to make decent for viewing by elementary childrens)

not traced. Not that it's good enough that it looks like it had to be traced. But...I was proud of it!

That's Poogy. I drew it during quiet time today. Poogy wants mad cupcakes but has sad thumbs.

Beard Poem Three

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Melanie said to Bill, "What the flip?
None of that stuff has to do with my trip!
I need to find that dragon and get back the beards.
Everything you said is pointless and weird!"
Bill just laughed, "Your mind is clearly not cleared.
In life, every path is much different than as it first appeared."

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Melanie was out there with a PSSHHHH!!
"Crazy ol' Bill is full of rubishhhhh."
Melanie would save the beards all on her own.
With her electric blue shield and her charms made of stone.
In the morning sun, her crystal armor shone
along with her sword of licking flames, forged in molten hambone.

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Melanie was pretty and strong, like a muscular owl.
She moved with the grace of a tiger's prowl.
She had hair like pasta, and big brown eyes,
gleaming white teeth...and...and...HANDS!
and feet, nose, mouth, legs, arms, ankles, ears, did I mention the eyes?
Imagine Melanie however you like best. I'm not gonna try.

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The first verse in this was the last verse in the Second Post but...it should be here. Not there.

Crazy Pudding and Butterflies

More pre-snack doodles....

BONUS THING!:::

gif from the return trip of a cross country thing!

everybody knows it!

THIRD PLACE!!

The Gwampus

In the animal kingdom, there is a basic rule of order that all animals tend to follow; it is known as the Food Chain.

It works like this: the bigger, stronger, faster animal eats the smaller, wimpier, slower animal.

What is amazing about the food chain is that no matter how low you are on the food chain, there is always something even punier than you.

The terrifying part of the food chain is that no matter how high up you are, there is always something with enormous jaws waiting to devour you.

The food chain even hols true in alternate dimensions. Where the animals and plants seem strange and monstrous to us.

For example, in an alternate dimension, the Great Flying Box Chicken is eaten by the stronger and faster Sabertooth Mountain Cricket.

The Colossal Fire Tortoise feeds on thousands of tiny Puddle Badgers for every meal.

Even the lowly Blueback Slug eats the hairs off the 3-eyed, 3-eared, 3-nosed jackrabbit.

Everything eats something below it and gets eaten by something above it.

Except, that is, for the Gwampus.

The Gwampus is a strange, strange creature. It's body, (if you can call it that), is a big purple head with two legs sticking out of where its neck should be and two long powerful arms sticking out of where its ears should be. The mouth of the Gwampus contains two rows of 52 razor sharp teeth and jaws that can rip open an aluminum can of peaches like it's a soggy napkin...full of peaches. Above the mouth are two beady eyes that gaze out in two different directions. Probably the best description of the Gwampus is an angry grape with fangs.

But, for a creature that is only two feet tall, it has no natural predators. Nothing eats a Gwampus. Not a Sabertooth Mountain Cricket, not a Razorback Dung Beetle, not even the fearsome Russian BoneBEAR!

It is as if no one ever told the Gwampus that it should be afraid of creatures that are bigger than it.

One time, a scientist tried to tell the Gwampus that it was too small to not be eaten, and the scientist was then eaten.

You do not mess with the Gwampus.

A single Gwampus can fit an entire Ford F550 Super Duty Pick-Up Truck with a 6.7L Power Stroke Turbodiesel V8 engine in its stomach and still have room for dessert.

The Gwampus has been known to take 39 consecutive bee stings to the face and not even cry all that much.

The Gwampus is able to see slightly into the future to figure out the best way to sneak up on animals and also completely ruin slumber parties.

When two Gwampuses meet, they can combine to form the dreaded GWAMPLAMOOSE! Which could probably eat the sky if it didn't think the sky tasted awful.

Is the Gwampus a monster? Yes!

Could you be friends with a Gwampus? No. You would be eaten.

But, you have to respect the Gwampus for believing in itself and refusing to accept that it will be eaten by a larger monster.

The Gwampus says, "No! I will not be your breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I will stand here until the Great Gum Drop Eagle climbs out of its smoking volcano and and picks me up with his massive talons and says, 'I'm gonna eat you!'

And there is a word for that. There is a word that sums up everything that the Gwampus is. The Gwampus is the living proof of this word. And that word is

tenacious. The Gwampus is tenacious.

Down with the Sickness

I've got the sniffles...boo.

But I will only emerge from this stronger!

As my immune system brutally strangulates these puny viruses and learns their crafty practices. I grow smarter and deadly with every passing nose-dripping!

Self-preservation into INFINITY!

Swimming Pool

Is green.

Life comes in phases. Things, people, afflictions, plagues--they all come in phases. Swimming pools too.

Blue swimming pools are a wonderful thing. This is undeniable. But a green swimming pool. Green swimming pools are the stuff or lore. There's whole creation myths arising from green swimming pools.

How did life come to be?

Well, there was probably this nasty pool of water with some junk floating around in it and then it got struck by lightning and the soup turned into amino acids or something.

Life is brought about by green swimming pools. Life is ended by green swimming pools.

What's a better portal to the underworld than a noxious, mottled pool of stagnant spew collected in a hard pit?

Life is transformed by a green swimming pool.

---and they'd all thought the rabbit with a marker duct-taped to its back was dead after it slipped through the bars of the fence and dove into the pool. The three kids stood in silence. Then they heard bubbling. A violent boiling became an eruption as the hideous beast reared its fatal-floppy-eared head above the water. It's teeth were long, yellow, crooked. Two bulging eyes darted about, consumed with vengeance. Mr. Sniffles was a twelve foot tall abomination and the marker was now a felt-tipped toxic bazooka. The rabbit had survived the waters, but innocence was drowned on the floor the deep-end.

And that's what I think about green swimming pools. Respect them. Just like any other natural wonder. 

Helmet Pumpkin

You wore your helmet because it was the safe thing to do, not because it was the cool thing to do. You looked up and saw the world with its knife to your stem. You saw the shadows of smiling men, dark as pitch. 

The cautious pumpkin does not roll with fevered momentum. It does not cling to the vine and suckle on the salt of the dirt. The cautious pumpkin stands and plans. It surveys and makes lists of contingencies. 

To be a cautious pumpkin with a helmet is to make a boring steady revolt against the wild violent froth of daily collisions. Stolid sense.

This is not the passion of a red tomato dripping with poison. This is not the rapid decay of a browning banana. This is not anything that you would think is cool or sexy or dangerous or fleeting. Because, isn't that what everything is supposed to be? Isn't that the hot soup we sip to feel the burn on the tips of our tongues?

I give you bland beyond bland! I give you vanilla on white! Tepid and endlessly regressive to the mean beyond all better judgement! No one will have you, HELMET PUMPKIN! You will have yourself and be a hopelessly safe outsider. You know it in your nature to be true. It is not within you to err or fluctuate though we are told this is inevitable.

Content without a cause. A hero without applause! Helmet Pumpkin never thinks twice to close the cracked door without a peek. 

Best Case Scenario

A Letter From the Future

RADIOACTIVE ROBOT WOLVES!

"If you are reading this, try not to dry-heave in fear over what you are about to be told. I am trapped in the future. I know it is the future because the money is purple and everyone has a third eye. I don't remember how I got here. One day, I woke up and I was in the future...also I was in a puddle of cold water and wearing a rubber jumpsuit.

The important thing for you to remember is that when the Radioactive Robot Wolves try to run for President of the United States, everyone will think it is really cool and want to do it. You must tell everyone that is not cool to vote for the Radioactive Robot Wolves. They will try to convince you that you are wrong and that the founding fathers would have been stoked out of their brains to elect cybernetic mammals to the highest office in the land. Do not give in. 

The Radioactive Robot Wolves will be wearing suits and ties and will try to promise you things like faster trains, shinier pants, and bigger boxes of breakfast cereal, but this is not what they will actually do. In the future I live in, the Radioactive Robot Wolves have eaten the Constitution, legally changed everyone's name to Pants P. Prindleston, and made the number 7 extinct. Every day we must gather in the center of our towns and sing new and original songs that praise the Wolf Overlords. We are not allowed to repeat songs and they must have rhyming words. When we are not singing, we are desperately trying to think of new lyrics to please the Radioactive Robot Wolves.

Please, you must help change the future. You must summon up all your energy and blast it in to the future like a blazing log of pepperoni. Maybe then we can make the world a better place.

Sincerely,

Pants P. Prindleston

More Beard Poem

Part One Here

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Oh! It was a topsy-turvy mixed-up world,
when the hero of beards was revealed to be a girl.
But she was sharp and quick and put the doubters to rest.
She met every challenge--she passed every test.
Melanie, Beard Warrior! had begun her quest.
Of all the adventurers--she was the best.

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
But how would she prepare to go where she will?
She would consult the wisest old coot--Bill.
Bill advised her and he can advise you too.
Every idea he will carefully chew.
He knew the truth that the others tried to skew,
They don't think it be like it is, but it do.

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!

This is what Bill told Melanie to do

And I promise every word of it is totally true.

"You must go way up high, you must go way down low.

You must go where the hot and cold winds always blow.

Visit the tree that forgot how to grow.

Visit the beach where the sand grains glow."

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!

And Bill kept on talking, he had much to tell.

To remember it all, a young warrior would do well.

"You must find a flying machine and sail to a cloud.

You must find a sword that screams louder than loud.

Get a new hair-do and a shadowy shroud.

And cook up a meal that would make your gran-gran-grandad proud!"

More Doodles From Work

 The Baron Von Checkwick: Eater of Turkeys

The Mighty Mighty Unicorn and the Masked Be-Flat Topped Runner

It's a poster I made for: Eat an Entire Pumpkin for Lunch Week!

I make little signs to let the kids know what snack is sometimes

Only one kid noticed I spelled it wrong, He said, "You forgot the "E" at the end!"

Possum Whallop or What English Class is For?

What English class is for?

In my freshman year of high school we were reading Romeo and Juliet and I distinctly remember the indignation I felt in having to read it. Instead of seeing metaphors and poetry, I saw nonsense. Jumbles of pretty words heaped in a pile that some faceless and nefarious organization had deemed important. It was all a lie that everyone was buying into because...they were fools.

And so, with all the confidence of someone who knows absolutely nothing about what they're doing, I would use my free writing time to create pages and pages of nonsense words and phrases. And all it would take--the only thing separating me from Shakespeare--was a couple hundred years and the stupidity of future generations to deem me brilliant. 

I was thinking today about how at the time it seemed so clear that I was pointing out the foolishness of Shakespeare. But, it was really a reflection of my stupidity. Arrogant little peon.

It wasn't until college that I realized that

1) if you want to derive any personal meaning or fulfillment from literature, or any kind of art, you have to assume, or trust, that its components are meaningfully arranged. That knowing about the structure--the architecture--can unlock it. That questioning a work will not just turn up a random series of accidents.

Because there's no point in writing a paper about a poem or a story if you view yourself as a spectator. Someone who is just watching and registering the surface appearance has nothing important to say. 

You've got to get in there! In the leaky and creaky inner-workings and look around because that's where your thoughts and experience and knowledge that you bring becomes important. Now you're looking for something. 

2) What you're saying about the work is as much a reflection on you as it is on the work. I thought Shakespeare was stupid because I couldn't get anything out of it--because I was stupid! 

The reader matters. And there's sort of a contradiction that people who dislike English classes (including myself) run into. People complain that papers written for English can't be accurately graded because it's all very subjective. But, I think those same people (me too!) treat their reaction to a work as if its built into the story. As if, they have no control over how they think about something. Which isn't really subjective at all. It's pushing the blame on the teacher and the work itself whenever its most convenient. There's a squeamishness involved in owning your interpretation. 

But if you recognize the importance of your interpretative abilities and craft your argument accordingly, then this is what should make your paper successful. Not that you had some lucky insight into the work or into the mind of the person grading it. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

So then, as best I can see it, this leads to two big problems.

If a work is meaningfully arranged by the person who wrote it. Then what does it matter what the reader thinks about it? Shouldn't the author be the be-all end-all? They put the meanings in there. If we're so sure they knew what they were doing then why would we have any reason to deviate from what they must have intended?

(First of all, this is a pretty lame way to argue with yourself, Andy). Well, I would dare to guess that anyone who writes because they enjoy writing and reading, wouldn't just be trying to convince you of some immediate, recognizable truth. That's propaganda. A writer would develop the work to make the discovery of its boundaries and its rules and its work-INGS, fulfilling. 

Or, that the work isn't trying to provide answers so much as an interesting, engaging way of posing a problem. And an interesting way of discovering the problem. So, then the really important part has been left up to the reader by design. Ha! Try to escape responsibility now!

BUT! If my interpretation is an expression of myself. How can you put a grade on it? That's not fair.

To which I respond: it's like TENNIS but you don't know any of the rules!

Part of close reading and understanding literature is figuring out the rules and boundaries of each work. Obviously, not every interpretation can work. In the same way that you can't just whack a ball at someone and call it tennis. All of the facts and quotations and background knowledge you pull together for an argument is like assembling the limits of the game/work. And the tighter you set the limits, the less ambiguity, the stronger your argument becomes.

But the whole point of playing tennis is seeing how people use those limits differently. You want to align the limits you choose to set as closely as you can to the ones "set" in the poem/story (to weed out what is wrong and cannot be true and highlight what does work). Then, you play. 

And it's certainly true that someone can play tennis better than you. Or that you can violate your own rules. 

So, a paper isn't just your pure personal expression. It's your expression within the confines of something (when would hope) is really awesome. Like the difference between playing on a nasty asphalt court and a huge stadium. And your ability to recognize those limits and work within them are representative of both your analytic and creative mind.

And I think all of that has moral implications too. How you go about living your life and such. But that's for another spewing post. 

Circle Circle Circle

If a blog is good for anything at all, maybe it's evidence that you did something on that particular day.

I mean, you blogged, at least.

Why that's a concern is sort of weird though. Does that mean without a blog that I'll look back and think that I've done nothing? Well, I'll know that I did something. It's not like I really enjoy reading my old posts anyway.

But, if a blog is good for anything at all, its evidence to YOU that I did something on this particular day. It's a statement to someone else. The reader. The future reader. The intended reader.

I guess the intended reader would be someone who finds this worth reading.

Or, the intended reader is someone who feels the same way I feel when I read someone else's blog/website/whatever.

But it's not like I can feel you feeling that. I'm unknowingly inflecting that (sometimes shameful) curiosity on you. Because I've felt it.

And it's partly that I think that curiosity is a good thing and I'd like to reciprocate it but it's equally true that I'm trying to raise myself up the way I (somewhat uncontrollably) raise up people I read about. It's just plain interesting to me.

I guess you're the one doing the raising. I don't know what I'm doing.

You should blog because you have thoughts you want to share...

but why do that in the form of a blog? Why commit to it?

Now it's come full circle.

Twone Pictures

Big guy: BWAAAAHHHH!

Little Guy: waaahhhh!

Hiar

Millions of billions of things have come before you! Billions of trillions of things will happen after you.

But you still have eyebrow hairs.

You still have these little follicles on your face to add nuance, to add an ever-so-slight distinction, to the vaporous expressions that leave and enter without announcement as they please.

That detail is staggering! Staggered! I am.

Who cares if you have eyebrow hairs? 

But

There they are.

Or what about a single eyebrow hair? That exists. It's as real as anything else and in the history of you--in the channel of the history of everything--there is that eyebrow hair. 

 It matters. It plays its part as eyebrow hair. The earnestness of an eyebrow hair is tremendous.

Surely, you, eyebrow hair, could float off and on into nothingness or otherness but you remain, steadfastly, and eyebrow hair. 

No one would miss you. No one would notice. But you remain, steadfastly, an eyebrow hair.

We owe it to our eyebrow hairs to know that we matter. To know that the hugeness of existence is made up of eyebrow hairs of all shapes and sizes and colors. 

That's weird! That's very weird to me. It's unsettling even. But, eyebrow hairs are what we've been given so eyebrow hairs are what we will have. 

Eyebrow hairs: the universe furrows its brow at you with silly austerity!

It's raining a lot. I like breathing

Like, a lot.

And I like breathing. If you can enjoy breathing--the act of inhaling and exhaling--you're set. You've got it made. No one can take away your enjoyment of breathing.

 But I guess that's the thing about enjoying stuff. The stuff people can't take away is the stuff you don't want cuz of how lame it is. I want cool things like fire trucks and a 4 Thousand Dollars Bill.

Yeah, breathing doesn't seem so cool anymore, does it?

Nope.

stupid rain.

Beard Poem

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Beards to my left. And beards to my right.
Beards by the day. And beards in the night.
Until, a dragon of beards flew over the land,
and snatched all the beards with its be-bearded hands.
Who could have concocted such a dastardly plan?
We were beardless and helpless! Oh man! Oh man!

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
Our chins were now naked. Our chins were now cold.
There was no way to tell the young from the old.
We needed a beard warrior--with beard strength supreme!
With weapons, pizzazz, and high self-esteem!
The kind of hero who only exists in a dream--
riding a rainbow-colored horse that poops vanilla ice cream.

Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards! Beards!
But then appeared some dude from way far away,
the kind of dude-hero who just might save the day(?)
"Tell us your name, Beard warrior to-be!
Will you bring back our beards? Will you do it for free?
You are shining and strong, and have your college degree!
Tell us your name--it is...Melanie?"

That was the first three stanzas. I think I'll read this at my job. It'll be an ongoing story that mostly revolves around the first rhyming words that pop into my head.

I think rhyming has a real value in forcing you to progress in unexpected ways. I used to be against rhyming because it can sound forced and disingenuous, it can detract from an important emotion or idea you're trying to convey. But if you want to just tell a stupid beard story--then rhyming is a great way to plod-hop about it.

Chacken Skritch

The Final Round!: Giant Thumb Wearing Necktie VS. Alligator Toothbrush!

It's time for the battle to begin!

The Battle Begins!

Two opponents. Thirsting for glory. Blood will flow and a victor will rise from the ashes of losing.

Giant Thumb Wearing Necktie!

Opposably unopposed 

Formally merciless and raised by parents with truncated liberal arts educations and untreated anger issues!

A born killer and the pride of man's desire to reach beyond his grasp.

Alligator Toothbrush!

An alligator head improbably attached to the end of a toothbrush,

"Biting gums and wrecking thumbs", or so says the bumper stick he claims was attached to his after-birth.

Nature's vengeance has a son with a face that only a mother who has given up on not raising a degenerate could pretend to love.

The Battle Begins!

"I am the Giant Thumb Wearing a Necktie!
I will bathe my noodles in your life blood like Ragu!
I will mash you and degrade you and crumple you up.
I will show you heavenly bliss and polite dinner conversation only to make the following rudeness all the more unexpected and devastating!
There is no despair without hope.
There is no peace in the furnace of my soul without the crushing of your butt!"

"I am the Alligator Toothbrush!
I am virtuous and lust only for the blood of evil.
However, I am not not hindered by the logical fallacy that those whom I kill are evil because I only kill evil, therefore, if they are killed by me--they are evil.
I may be begging the question but soon you will be begging for mercy!
Any respect I could have for you in battle has been diminished by my low blood sugar!
Death is in sight via the magnifying glass of your pain!"

The Battle Begins!

...and then it would just go on and on forever like that without the battle ever happening...

Jocundid

There are things in life that I should probably pay more attention to.

Twice now I've seen my sister on campus and she's waved at me and I've looked at her and haven't been able to recognize her face. For a moment she looks like a complete stranger. And then I'll think about it for a second, and look again, and recognize her and blurt out, "I didn't recognize you!"

And, I'm not saying that I should pay more attention so I can recognize my sister more easily. That's silly. I should pay more attention to the potential reason I'm not recognizing my little sister. This is important. This is like an important first step to something potentially catastrophic. This is the part of the movie where everything in the protagonist's life heretofore has been normal. But now these little things keep popping up that foretell the terrible occurrence. Or whatever plot device you prefer.

So in attempt to thwart the encroaching threat on my reality, here's a list of reasons I can't recognize my sister in public

-I still don't expect to see her here. She isn't part of my schema of college.

-Every night her face is being invisibly burned by the millipedes that live in the tiny holes behind her ears. And only I can sense the invisible trace they leave as they harvest her dead skin into wads of sinister stupidity

-A part of my brain is being eaten by another part of my brain to create infinite brain

-I never actually looked at my sister's face while growing up and then when I got to college I forced myself to make eye contact with people

-Given the sight is actually caused by the beams of light that is emitted from the retinas, my sister has strategically placed mirrors on her face to reflect that light and distort her image

-my sister got botox? (question mark?)

-My sister has pulled a Paul McCartney and only I can notice the difference

-The masks we wear during our waking hours have come unglued and we can't bear to look at what's underneath

-I'm trapped in a dream and not recognizing my sister is one of those dream things like not being able to read a clock or turn on lights.

-The millipede burning one again. That seems most plausible.

More like, FONDON'T!

I like to tell the kids where I work that I am very sad and alone. And that when I get off work I go home and cry myself to sleep.

They think it's funny.

And I was thinking about how there's something appealing about being okay with being sad. Or even, that it's funny to be plainly and openly sad. Louis C.K. talks about it a lot.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HbYScltf1c

I'm not saying that people who are actually sad are funny.

But, the idea of crushing sadness and misery raining down from the sky is kinda funny to me. There's something absurd about it.

It's not like you could be afflicted with any other emotion. You can't be stricken with chronic happiness or anger or...surprise. But there's a whole rainbow of sadness that you can feel at any given moment. I don't know.

It'd be cool to switch bodies with someone for a day or eight.

Killing It on All Five Baseboards

Hypotheoreticulateraterthetically,

I was at work yesterday and before the kids can play games in the gym or go outside on the playground, we have homework time. The kids are expected to do their homework quietly or read a book quietly or sit there and be bored...QUIETLY!

And of course, about ten to fifteen percent of them never do that. Either because they have no homework or there really isn't a strong incentive to do any of it. I'm fine with this.

I'm also mostly fine with the fact that they get up a lot and talk to me or talk to other kids or do something weird because they're kids.

But my hypothetical coworker decided to announce this, "Let's try this. I'm going to start a list and if you get up more than two times during homework time or I catch you talking to anyone, you're going on the list and you will sit out during gym time or on the playground."

Now, this question probably wasn't asked during her job interview, but I think it should have been,

"If you had to gain control of a group of children, would you immediately try to implement a Fascist regime that monitors and silently punishes all enemies to the well-being of the after-school program?"

Maybe that's worth asking because it's not the first time I've hypothetically seen it done. Also it doesn't work.

But what was strangest of all was that she asked the kids if they were okay with it. "Does that sound good?"

Uh....no. Who would agree to that? Why are you hypothetically asking that? Don't try  to switch it back to democracy at the end, Il Duce. 

Hydration Will Improve the Quality of Your Life

If you tire of living a dessicated impression of your former life-
If your cracked sense of happiness is inflamed and chafed like the fevered old parchment of the Declaration of Independence-
"Give me a soggy kingdom of clouds for liberation from the tyranny of dry, unlubricated existence", you cry!

The solution comes surging forth through ruptured rocks with lusty strokes!
Water!
Happy cells! Lifted tides and the spirit to rinse the stagnant pool of croaking limbs and spongey clanky disappointments.
New! The clear virtuous waterfall dropping strange sights off its cliff.
Gawk!

......,...........

I'm trying to drink more water.

A Stupid Thing and MacBeth

Butts of Long Since Passed

Sitting here, on my butt, at the top of rows and rows
of empty tables and empty seats
bereft of butts long since passed.

In a great cavity of butt, one might say.

And in this void, I am compelled to wonder, where all butts have gone?

Simply, they have gone off--and on and on and on.

They have squished and sagged and haunted other halls.
But, the suggestion here lingers.

You butts are too transient. But, your traces too strong.
Leave me! You booty specters.

The present fear of butts' absence is less than horrible imaginings.
Nothing is butt, but what is not.
----------------------------------------------------------------

This is some stuff I thought about in an empty cafeteria and then I went to a Shakespeare class and then I biked home. This is what I carried back.

Let's Go to Work!

This I like to call, Poetry Written at Work.

These red streaks streaming in the middle of my morning door opening.

Face the world.

I scream, "Are you a story?"

The stained carpet and bikes with yellow tires on fake green grass turn pink.

"Are you a story?" I scream.

Some kind of transformation here

in the rosy tint from the radial pink clouds.

It must mean more than the dull hammers mashing mud 

into a blunt kingdom of belches and bulging creatures.

Beauty! Much too much to spark my wires.

-------------------------------------------------------------

This is about the sunrise this morning and what I thought about when I thought about.

Taken from an IPAP!

Now it's time to get funky

No time for writing/drawing. Work and school and staying a functional person all the times.

Will try to write weird poems and mini stories at work until free time returns.

I JUST BURNED MY TONGUE!

LIFE IS HAPPENING TO ME!

Mustache justice

A thing.

Way Behind On Posts so Here's Doodles

Police car: rogue justice! No stopping! No brakes!

This is a fantastical creature I drew on a big piece of blue paper on the wall to confuse children and staff alike.

Sketch elephant say WHAT?!

Diamond Dude and his Dead Dog

I just call hims "Teethers".