This slogan can mean whatever I want you to.

"Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder, "Why, why, why?"
Tiger got to sleep,
Bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand."

- Bokanon, The Books of Bokanon
(Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle)

***************************************************************

We believe we have a lot to say, but we're really just observing.

Letters,
floating,
forming, reforming,
pleading for shape.

Dip in
to draw them out,
but they scatter,
they scatter,
and the reflections remain
hidden.

The words sink
in the light;
there is no spoon,
just a finger that points away to the moon...

Insert crappy pun here

or, Steady on chaps! We're just getting started with this reverse-colonialism caper

***************************************************************

For Feanor, who might just be a little prophetic.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

Futility
n., 'Open letters' directed at famous personalities by not-as-famous and limited-readership bloggers, written with every indication that the blogger does in fact expect the letter to be read by the personality*.


See Also:
Hubris
Perspective



* This does not include tongue-in-cheek ones, or ones that are written in this format but only aimed at their readership.

Manual of Life - Alternative Definitions

Irony
n., Watching your weight very closely in the hope that you might lose it.


See also:
Chocolate sundaes with whipped cream
Myth
See-food diet

Oh...still here? Didn't notice you lurking there.

Good little blog.

/pat

Stay.

I'll come visit soon maybe.

No! Bad blog!

Stay.

/scoot

First, it was humans making the machines get smarter.

Now, we've gone and created life*.

For crying out loud, somebody gift these people a whole bunch of doomsday SF books! Give it a decade, and it'll be time for Run Forrest runnnnnn, only this time Forrest is one of the last 17 humans left alive, and is being cheered on by bloodthirsty shapeshifters while machine-killers hunt him down.

Time to start work on those underground bunkers, methinks.


Update: Some basic details, and some in-depth ones.


* Ok, well, not 'life' per se, but still a significant development nevertheless. The implications - for good and disaster - are endless.

Things change.

And you look back, and look around now, and you wonder.

And you doubt.

And you laugh. off.

And you cringe.

And you rationalise.

And you cannot believe it was you who was that, then.

And you cannot accept that it will still be you, soon, doing the same things in years to come.

And you deny.

And you fight.

And you reinvent.

And you never accept that this is you.

And that this will always be you.

And you're stuck.

And that if you just realised that, you would be free.

Friday Fun: Fact/Fiction

(While this could be true, it could also not be)
*************************************************

When I was seven (or maybe eight), I was going through all the colour-coded Blyton short stories books. One of those carried this story about a mean woman who kept thumping and banging all her furniture and belongings, and how they (the table, the teapot, the pots, etc) got fed up and began playing tricks on her till she realised what was happening and started treating them better.

The story simultaneously made me thankful that there was at least one other person in the world who believed that the objects around us were alive and secretly communicating with each other, and made me even more paranoid for the same reason.

So if you catch me apologising after slamming a door, you know why.

Questions

"Oh. Well, let's see....Little babies float about on purple bricks, and then giant frisbees come in and announce that they are breaking the rules and will be put away in a room with some no-handled mugs, only they're interrupted by a bottle of ginger beer that jumps up and down and up down and up and down and sprays froth all over them so that the babies escape, and then the frisbees send some wild sunflowers after them that keep reflecting sunlight into the path of the babies so that it's too shiny to see where they're going, and then they come to a river of liquid emerald and the bricks refuse to go on because everybody knows that purple and green don't match, so the babies hop off and take out their lollipops and lick them till they're really sticky and then throw them at the sunflowers to tangle them up, and then -"

"No. I meant, tell us about your career dreams."

"........."

Split

It's not you,
it's me.

The me you turned the me
who wanted to be with you
into.

The me that is more what you
imagined me to be,
than the me that could have been.

The me I stare at,
as you would at an old friend
in disbelief
at the embarassment they have become.

It's not you,
it's me,
me,
me.
And I want me back.