(no subject)

Of the Many Many things I find myself Thankful For on this day of Feasts and Benediction, the "Online Personality Test" is by far the most Immediately Pleasurable. Divining meanings through the answers to very simple questions, I have found a Right and True affinity with the Red Converse Hi-Top ("Classical yet edgy", they say) and have come to learn that if I were a dog, A Dog! I would be a Labrador Retriever.

Oh, but were it this easy... Tarot Cards and Ouija Boards and Astrologers and Opportunists of the lowest caliber also abound. I do not understand how such personal predictions and predilictions can travel through this ether with any clarity. My doubts Double and Triple with each mis-fortune I read. take for example, fine reader, the Excuisite Piece of "Literature" i have been declared ~

Charles Baudelaire: The Flowers of Evil. You are
one of the most loved and hated poetic works.
Death and decadence are important themes for
you, but none should overlook your impressive
aesthetics, either. Deep down youre not evil at
all, you just like to play the tough guy on the

Which literature classic are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Charles Mother Fucking Rat Bastard Charlatan-At-Large Baudelaire. That mountebank! That counterfeit! That peddler of purloined poetry!

On this day, let me also note my Thanks for the proliferance of On~Line Absinthe dealers.

A Singular Horror in Triplicate

Had I known that my Hopes were fraught with delusory longing... These Triplets of Belleville, Harlots, Perverse Strumpets Three! Oh but no, that was not to be. Libertines only by reputation, by the time I had sad chance to glimpse their venerable offerings, they had ripened and ripened and ripened so that one could barely recognise the genius they were claimed to have.

Stories of allegory and fruition ~ dear friends pay close heed ~ need temperance. Through Laudinum or Likeable Characters.

As for my absence ~ I have been recently inducted into the Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo. My shuddering derision of the aliteration aside, I have to admire my newfound friends' tenacity. Despite being, for all intents and purposes, a non-entity, they have such a strong hold upon my heart. Sweet music calms the demons inside and offers sweet respite.
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(no subject)

Nature is a temple whose living colonnades,
Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs;
Man wanders among symbols in those glades
Where all things watch him with familiar eyes.

Like dwindling echoes gathered far away
Into a deep and thronging unison
Huge as the night or as the light of day,
All scents and sounds and colors meet as one.

Perfumes there are as sweet as the oboe's sound,
Green as the prairies, fresh as a child's caress,
-- And there are others, rich, corrupt, profound

And of an infinite pervasiveness,
Like myrrh, or musk, or amber, that excite
The ecstasies of sense, the soul's delight.

- Baudelaire

In, as they say, the parlance of our times; Mr. Baudelaire, you may well very suck it.

(no subject)

That infidel Baudelaire! Even in this Age of Fleeting Fancy and outrageously-paid Lawyers guarding against the Outrage of Libel, I find so many mis-repesentations and mis-calculations when I conspire to spy upon myself through the looking-glass of Google. It must be that Baudelaire, he has always been one to further his quest for Fame by creating evermore interesting shadows to lurk within. Humbling is a word that comes close to encompasing the mood for a man realizing that he must live through eternity paling in comparason to me; I do believe that he has done a fine job of creating a sense of austerity-by-proxy.

There are myths that Must be de-structed, however.
No matter how fitting the countenance may be, I am not Roderick from Fall of the House of Usher, nor is He modeled after Me. My love for Virginia ended when I put her into her tomb, I did not wither and suffer because of her, or because of my memory and wanting of her. No, dear friends, my suffering was borne on the wings of a syphilitic angel. Virginia, the Sweet Succubus, gave to me a gift far more lasting than any memento mori.

Valentine, a poem that most believe to be written for my dear Fanny Osbourne, is not. The poem is now, and always has been, Grist for the Mill. It was penned under dire circumstances for a mere pittance because, as I have noted before, my fondness for Bourbon sometimes got the best of me.

Instances are many and repeat, the paramount task of dispellation tires me. Lies and Chicanery, all. Feh! Baudelaire!

The truth that I cannot avoid is this; my darling Sara once wrote these words, "had I youth and health and beauty I would live for you and die with you. Now were I to allow myself to love you, I could only enjoy a bright brief hour of rapture and die." Through them I have become Immortal, and she has, as prophesized, gone on. Oh, rapturous hour, how many times I have re-lived you...
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    contemplative contemplative

I believe they are called Flip-Flops

How Vile!
These long springlike days languishing into springlike nights... My Eyes, how this time of year brings out the worst in me. How can I possibly chase my Dragon and speak with my beloved Green Fairie with the racket of clamboring puppies (for the love of a beautiful woman, Puppies!) and children on their bi-cycles and adults on their motor-cycles and the deadening swishswish of this newfangled footwear?

How my beloved Hop-Frog would have loved all of this...
I would have had to kill him sooner.

The Lion Speaks

All of these Motion Pictures, so little time. I continue to keep my Adventures indoors; ever since the incident at one of these so-called Raves, I've felt the need to remain confined, my soul weaving amongst the cobwebs of my humble abode. You have won this round, Eyeball Paul, but I will be back. Oh yes, I will be back.

So I venture further into the history as written in Film ~ All About Eve and Natural Born Killers were on tonight's marquee. Now far be it for me to speak of gratuitous violence and rage, I know little of such things, and honestly, I am completely shocked to see scenes of such blatant outburst. Please, all, watch the tale of Eve. My dear Mrs. Bette Davis shows far more contempt and ire with one bite of a stalk of celery than Woodman Harrelson invokes with a feature of guns and knives.

Times are kept by their stories. It is true, friends. This Modern Age shows no cruelty, only common violence. There is no real bravado, only Batonga! What was once subtlety and grace with a hint of venom is now unmitigated and unintelligible. I hope there are storytellers of a worthy caliber still crafting and honing their skills. I hope to run across one in a dark tavern some afternoon. That is, should I choose to venture out again. I would certainly take this person under my wing, possibly continuing onto under the table.


For further research... an abomination, an abhorrence, a splendid horror has found its way to me. Modern Drunkard, a periodical of the finest caliber, is under the misconception that I am, on one hand, quite dead, and on the other hand, quite a "glass liver."
Although I have not met Mr. Hemingway, nor read any of his work, I did see his daughter, or perhaps grand-daughter, in They Call Me Bruce? and ye Gods I must hope beyond hope that Delerium Tremens run in the family.

Lest I sidetrack myself, this account has me mixing Wine with Bass Ale and Coors, and if that is not disrespectful enough, it is alleged that Mr. Hemingway floors me with a glass of the sweet Absinthe. Oh my dear, misguided authors, please, if you simply must write about my habits, take the time to learn of them.
Let me say to you now ~ If I can blend Laudinum with Opium and enjoy the resultant elixir for breakfast, i most certainly can handle a "Tall-Boy" of Coors.
I did not give up the drink for my health, I did not give up the drink for my fortune, and I certainly did not give up the drink for love, you may ask my dear beleaguered Sara of this. Be it forgone that I most certainly will not fall prey to the drink in the addled mind of a pettifogging journalist.
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    irritated irritated

(no subject)

This day has brought much Joy and much Pain.
The Joy is encapsulated in this small exchange ~ http://homestarrunner.com/sbemail62.html. I have found that if one were to click upon the semblance of StrongBad while it's atop the pen, the visage will change. This also holds true for the hapless HomeStarRunner. Also, when a character grimly called The Cheat enters the room, there are lightswitches that may be turned off and on. These seem to have no bearing on the conversation that is happening, but upon reflection, I have to admit that I have no idea what they would have said had I not been changing their faces three times per second. I do enjoy watching the lightshow, however. I have much to learn about The Lightswitch Rave, and resources on the topic are limited, but I am intrigued.

The Pain. Oh yes, the Pain... There is one thing that troubles my mind this evening, I have just learned that a Ms. Reed has been re-writing my work! She said, and I quote liberally, "These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe/ Not exactly the boy next do.'" I'd like to point out that my name is pronounced "Poe." as in Edgar Allan Poe. It does not rhyme with do. Or two. Nor does it rhyme with through. The closest associations I am able to give are bow, toe, and my favorite of this new vernacular, schmoe. Let me also point out that I do live next door to someone. I shan't say to whom.
I've been reading about this Ms. Reed, and I have found that she's very fond of wearing velvet and prefers the underground. Being a New Yorker, I would have thought she would call it The Subway, but then, perhaps she is English by birth. As much as I do not approve of judgment of character based up on physical appearance, I must note that Ms. Reed is a very homely woman and perhaps it is because of her appearance that she sees fit to find creative ways of whiling her time. I, myself, have taken up the very unmasculine passtime of knitting (having read an article that gave me, in no uncertain terms, a feeling of certainty about the increase in 'street cred' that knitting would give me. I have mastered the perl, the cable knit, and have developed an intense fascination with mohair), perhaps Ms. Reed would like to learn that, or cross-stitch. I feel her time would be much better spent. I'm sure what she lacks in beauty she can cultivate in domestic charm, and will perchance someday find herself a good man.

I believe your motves are pure, Ms Reed, yet the things that you do cause great pain to me and my house. I feel that you are doing an irreparable disservice to my life's work and if you only knew the horrors I have seen, the things that inspired me to create my characters and situations. I read an interview wherein you declared, "If you sit down and read Poe, you sit down and read him with a dictionary. He's an amazing scholar with words, but a lot of these words were very obscure in the first place when he used them. So I looked all of them up and brought all of them up to date so we would know what he's talking about. And I wrote to sound like him. If you knew nothing about Edgar Allan Poe, never read him, never heard of him, you would do fine with this record." Let me assure you that there are souls out there that feel the same pain, that see the same ghosts, that fall prey to the same midnight and waking nightmares... The language I use can be understood by every Opium Addict and Ivory-Towered Scholar, every Roustabout and Ruffle-Shirted Fancy. For it is not the words, Ms. Reed, but the intent.

Please, Louella Reed, cease and desist, I implore you.

Following the White Rabbit

Sweet Trinity - Neo, Morpheus, Agent Smith. Which is really the agent of evil? Is it Morpheus, the seeker of truth? Is it Smith, the one who works to keep the status quo? is it Neo, the one who lives in both worlds? Is it wrong to want to live in and enjoy a comfortable live, even if the life is more fiction than fiction itself? Can it possibly be a duplicity if one is truly unaware? How, I ask, is it noble to look for the truth amongst the squalor, when no one will, or can, believe you?
oh, sweet Trinity, how I wish that you were the good - how I would like to fly with you above the city, encased in your leather cloak, learning your secrets. Hearing your whispers...
If only I could name Trinity as the evil ~ If only she were the temptress, greedy, selfish, insane, prone to debilitating fits of ennui... Oh Trinity, you could be the seductress, the Whore of my Personal Babylon. If I were to ask, would you wear the robes of the Green Fairie? Oh, the visions you put in my head, Trinity, you will haunt my days and fill my nights with such vision as I have never imagined.

There is much that i don't understand about this genre you call Science Fiction, however, I have also come to realize that I don't need to know a lot; the suspension of belief is inherent to enjoying a good tale, and much like in life, I find myself accepting the things I cannot comprehend. I do not know how my Remote Control device works, but I believe that by pressing the correct buttons, I can seamlessly navigate the Channels of Entertainment, avoiding the monsters of Daytime Soap Operas and not getting snared by Sally Jesse's Siren call.
I know that if I suspend my disbelief, that large sharks will haunt beaches, that cat-eating creatures from worlds beyond will be welcome houseguests, that oxygen really gets clothes cleaner, and that any flights of fancy are possible.
I have dedicated my life to the suspension of belief, the suspension of reality, the suspension of the laws of nature ~

Oh Trinity, there is more to you that I'd like to suspend...

Hic Tandem Felicis Conduntur Reliquae

Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring...

I can agree with the opening lines of this unfortunately popular poem. The night before Christmas it is indeed, and although there are Stirrings in the house, they are of no Earthly creature.
Some mentally and possibly morally befouled gentlemen who have came and passed in the times between my times saw fit to close the liquor stores early on this pre-holiday. How can one stand these constant innundations of advertisements and small cartoonish children and all sorts of modern horrors without a stiff drink or three? If I cannot have morphine or Chase the Sweet Dragon, why must I be denied the small joys I have come to find in a decanter of Laphroiag?
Texaco has come to my rescue on many a late night, and on this eve again, I will seek refuge under its neon canopy and enjoy the newfound wonders of Robitussen. Wonders of this day and age ~ Absinthe is forbidden to me and yet I can create a veritable liquid wonderland any time of the day or night with an inexpensive bottle of what the kids are calling 'Tussin and a few cans of Jolt Cola. These are things sold to children! Do the parents know? Is this invention of my own creation?

Sweet readers, I wish you a good night and I share my hope for the New Year ~ may your sleep be unfettered and your visions not manifest.
For this New Year, I hope to explore more of this world; I have heard that I can obtain copious amounts of Codeine in Canada, and while I'm a bit leery of a milder dose of my favorite breakfast, I have hopes that I will find adventures in this Land to the North that Admiral Richard Byrd never even dreamt of.
My own grave in Westminster is another destination ~ the Heavens will sound and run red with the blood of angels if it is true that a lonely sandstone block engraved only with "80" marks the spot where I once rest my head.

However, before any of these distances are travelled, I must find a fitting way of celebrating my birthday.
Yet for now, the neon canapy awaits...