With blackened eyes and beaten soul do we look on our fate;
Quite possible the chance may be that it’s been a mistake.
But even still, the spirit yearns for something it can’t grasp,
That it may break the fettered chains and may be free at last.
Trying to break a mold made tight with everlasting shame;
Whose constrains have broken, beaten; thoughts struggle, ever lame.
Never to live the life that lurks inside the lusting mind;
A life open to joy and pain, to instincts that entwine
with the base of our being, yet we cannot show this side--
Like ivy climbing towards the sun to be removed in time.
So now do we put on faces that will never be thine,
and go out to this world we know and leave our dreams behind.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Differences.
She was beautiful, that's true, but it was that kind of odd, otherworldly beauty that seems so far away; the person possessing it somehow is unappealing and plain to you, only to bloom and flower in radiant wonder as they leave your field of vision. Out the corner of your eye, you see them in all their glory--try to look again and its gone. That kind of beauty blends into a crowd so easily, one fish among hundreds in the big sea. She was stocky, expressive, built out of a single block of smooth ivory, marble; seamless and impervious to the wear and tear of the world. I don't know what she saw in me. Perhaps it was the novelty of something different. I was the geode to her marble; unappealing and likely to be ignored, yet, hopefully, when inspected and shattered...
It was night when we left the seemingly vacant warehouse. The lights and sound and goodwill inside were muffled and insulated by the silent metal and mortar. You'd never guess there was a party going on if it weren't for the sporadic trickle of tired ravers, sweating even in the cold air. The clouds hung over the sky, visible and pale against the dull gloss of the space beyond the atmosphere, like wisps of cotton lint on a funeral gown. It was strange, I told her, to look at the stars. I was glad they didn't show tonight.
Of course, she responded. It would be strange for her to stare at the stars now that she was going to be with one of their people. 'With' was the word she used. I liked the complete absence of intimacy; if she had said 'sleeping with' I would have left her on the spot. The idea was too unknown to both of us to be spoken aloud, too vulgar for words or even direct thought.
Her car was nice. I think it was a 'Bug' or something of the sort. Small, compact, and curved, a nice powder-blue color that stood out, I assumed, only as it drove past. I tried not to think of the similarities between the vehicle and the woman as she turned the key with an expert flick of the wrist and drove off. The windows were tinted, so I didn't have to hide; the only issue would be getting pulled over, and she told me that wouldn't be an issue. She hadn't gotten a ticket since 1990. That sudden comment alerted me to a rough estimate of her age and I panicked. This was, without a doubt, the most stupid thing I would ever do, and Vishnu almighty it was going to get me killed. It had to be a trap, or a trick, and any second now an MNU truck would appear out of nowhere and I'd be yanked away and deported--
We arrived at her house, a modest one-story affair with a postage-stamp of grass in the front and a veritable woods in the backyard. All four knees quaking, I scrambled out of the car and bolted inside so her neighbors wouldn't see.
Silently she steered me through the house, occasionally chuckling at some knickknack or appliance that caught my eye and giving a short description. I knew half of the things she told me but it was such a pleasure to listen to her talk, the self-assured tone resonating, just a bit lower then pride. Down a hallway, past a table, over a small black-and-white cat that was stretched out on the red carpet like a speed bump, until at last—at last!--the bedroom, with its decent bed and clean sheets. Wasting no time, she removed her outer clothing; I took off the tattered phat pants, held together with duct tape and safety pins to accommodate my unusual legs and hip structures. The two of us were on opposite sides of the bed. It took mental steel on her part, no doubt, to actually clamber onto the damn thing.
I could understand the idea of lust right then and there--there was something about her that I desired and needed and would fight plate and mandible and fist for, if need be. By all gods, human, poleepkwan and otherwise, I wanted her. A thin trill managed to work its way up my throat, contrasting the raspy rhythm of her breathing. I put one leg on the bed and leaned in, closer, so I could see the brown pigment of her eyes, the skin of her lips, the shining porousness of her skin. One mandible lifted up to slide against her cheek, against my judgement--I wanted to do that, but hadn't willed myself to do it yet. Another joined it, and another. She brushed my antennae with a delicate finger, rubbing along the base and tapping the tip. After a few moments we drew back. Preliminaries done--now we'd actually get started. I bent the leg resting on the bed and readied myself for the leap into the unknown, that figurative, literal, all-emcompassing unknown.
Something held me in place, freezing all of my muscles and petrifying me. It was like quicksand had been flowing around us all this time, sucking us deeper and deeper in only to harden into hard glass. We could see each other, we could feel each other, but we could never be close in the way we wanted to be. I let my leg slide off of the bed and rejoin its partner in supporting my weight. It wouldn't happen, ever, despite the emotion throbbing still in the room like a swollen heart; a heart that now skipped a beat and burst. We weren't the same, and because of that we'd always be separate. I would be acting in love when my people knew only hate...she would be giving up her gift of blending in. It was stupid, it was sentimental, but the fact was there and we couldn't ignore it now.
It was okay, she said. She understood. I knew she did--we'd been close enough for me to sense it, smell it on her skin. But that didn't help with the guilt; I felt like I had betrayed her and myself. So much effort was taken in getting our paths to cross, so much time spent in negotiating what was to occur, and nothing was actually happened.
The drive to an area close to Miss Miss' place was short and silent. There was nothing to say--everything we both could have thought of wouldn't have been adequate. Quiet was the best thing to describe the feeling of a bond severed, a bond that hadn't even formed but was broken, like a leech before it has attached to a vein, sucking and sucking at the empty air that provides no nourishment. Finally we arrived at the spot alongside the highway--"my neck of the woods", I told her. We embraced one last time, then I gathered my few possessions from the backseat and left. The little blue car stayed there for a moment, a wordless gesture of 'goodbye, godspeed', and it was gone.
I still don't know her name.
It was night when we left the seemingly vacant warehouse. The lights and sound and goodwill inside were muffled and insulated by the silent metal and mortar. You'd never guess there was a party going on if it weren't for the sporadic trickle of tired ravers, sweating even in the cold air. The clouds hung over the sky, visible and pale against the dull gloss of the space beyond the atmosphere, like wisps of cotton lint on a funeral gown. It was strange, I told her, to look at the stars. I was glad they didn't show tonight.
Of course, she responded. It would be strange for her to stare at the stars now that she was going to be with one of their people. 'With' was the word she used. I liked the complete absence of intimacy; if she had said 'sleeping with' I would have left her on the spot. The idea was too unknown to both of us to be spoken aloud, too vulgar for words or even direct thought.
Her car was nice. I think it was a 'Bug' or something of the sort. Small, compact, and curved, a nice powder-blue color that stood out, I assumed, only as it drove past. I tried not to think of the similarities between the vehicle and the woman as she turned the key with an expert flick of the wrist and drove off. The windows were tinted, so I didn't have to hide; the only issue would be getting pulled over, and she told me that wouldn't be an issue. She hadn't gotten a ticket since 1990. That sudden comment alerted me to a rough estimate of her age and I panicked. This was, without a doubt, the most stupid thing I would ever do, and Vishnu almighty it was going to get me killed. It had to be a trap, or a trick, and any second now an MNU truck would appear out of nowhere and I'd be yanked away and deported--
We arrived at her house, a modest one-story affair with a postage-stamp of grass in the front and a veritable woods in the backyard. All four knees quaking, I scrambled out of the car and bolted inside so her neighbors wouldn't see.
Silently she steered me through the house, occasionally chuckling at some knickknack or appliance that caught my eye and giving a short description. I knew half of the things she told me but it was such a pleasure to listen to her talk, the self-assured tone resonating, just a bit lower then pride. Down a hallway, past a table, over a small black-and-white cat that was stretched out on the red carpet like a speed bump, until at last—at last!--the bedroom, with its decent bed and clean sheets. Wasting no time, she removed her outer clothing; I took off the tattered phat pants, held together with duct tape and safety pins to accommodate my unusual legs and hip structures. The two of us were on opposite sides of the bed. It took mental steel on her part, no doubt, to actually clamber onto the damn thing.
I could understand the idea of lust right then and there--there was something about her that I desired and needed and would fight plate and mandible and fist for, if need be. By all gods, human, poleepkwan and otherwise, I wanted her. A thin trill managed to work its way up my throat, contrasting the raspy rhythm of her breathing. I put one leg on the bed and leaned in, closer, so I could see the brown pigment of her eyes, the skin of her lips, the shining porousness of her skin. One mandible lifted up to slide against her cheek, against my judgement--I wanted to do that, but hadn't willed myself to do it yet. Another joined it, and another. She brushed my antennae with a delicate finger, rubbing along the base and tapping the tip. After a few moments we drew back. Preliminaries done--now we'd actually get started. I bent the leg resting on the bed and readied myself for the leap into the unknown, that figurative, literal, all-emcompassing unknown.
Something held me in place, freezing all of my muscles and petrifying me. It was like quicksand had been flowing around us all this time, sucking us deeper and deeper in only to harden into hard glass. We could see each other, we could feel each other, but we could never be close in the way we wanted to be. I let my leg slide off of the bed and rejoin its partner in supporting my weight. It wouldn't happen, ever, despite the emotion throbbing still in the room like a swollen heart; a heart that now skipped a beat and burst. We weren't the same, and because of that we'd always be separate. I would be acting in love when my people knew only hate...she would be giving up her gift of blending in. It was stupid, it was sentimental, but the fact was there and we couldn't ignore it now.
It was okay, she said. She understood. I knew she did--we'd been close enough for me to sense it, smell it on her skin. But that didn't help with the guilt; I felt like I had betrayed her and myself. So much effort was taken in getting our paths to cross, so much time spent in negotiating what was to occur, and nothing was actually happened.
The drive to an area close to Miss Miss' place was short and silent. There was nothing to say--everything we both could have thought of wouldn't have been adequate. Quiet was the best thing to describe the feeling of a bond severed, a bond that hadn't even formed but was broken, like a leech before it has attached to a vein, sucking and sucking at the empty air that provides no nourishment. Finally we arrived at the spot alongside the highway--"my neck of the woods", I told her. We embraced one last time, then I gathered my few possessions from the backseat and left. The little blue car stayed there for a moment, a wordless gesture of 'goodbye, godspeed', and it was gone.
I still don't know her name.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Radio.
Radio. That was it; a radio. There was a radio in my head; the static so rough and loud, irritating the membranes of whatever brain cells I had left at the moment. I could have coped with it if it was music I was hearing, but the constant meaningless noise wore at my nerves like sandpaper. Have you ever been so angry at a thing that you want to destroy it? I have. I hated static, I hated the idea of static, I wanted the static to end.
But it persisted anyway--the volume even turned up and garbled outside voices. Snow buzzed in my vision, like a broken monitor had been stuck in the space behind my eyes and left with the power on, operating but not working. Blocking out sight, sound, movement, anything--there was the static and there was me and that was all. If the two of us occupied an entire universe on our own, it couldn't be measured or proven. We may have been in a world full of matter or consciousness; trillions of other lifeforms living all around...I couldn't tell. You could almost feel the brush of their little bodies against you sometimes; a moment later you'd find that you've gone numb and there's no way for you to feel anything.
The radiowaves changed in tone, sliding from higher to lower pitch as if someone was tuning it. Finally, all the backround noise coalesced into a few syllables, then a word, then a voice.
After contemplating the complete and utter fallibility of his life thus far, Olo Lamna, commonly known as Olo "Doorbell" Lamna, decided it was in the best interest of those around him to off himself. He hadn't accomplished much in his life yet, and with things the way they were it was highly unlikely he would ever do so.
The voice, so rough and jagged, narrating my thoughts along with lies. But were they lies, or were they things that were going to happen? Time was absent here along with the senses; the future blended into the past into the present into what would never happen. Was this voice a product of my own thoughts or another thing entirely?
In the course of his travels into the bowels of his own mind, he had uncovered a simple truth; even if things were not real to begin with it was still possible for them to impact three-dimensional corporeal beings, existing in an environment called space and time.
Well, that was true...ideas did more damage then blows or bullets. A cut or a broken bone would heal in time, naturally. An injury to the mind would take far more to go away. It may never go away--that was why we all had to be careful while fighting for or freedom. What if, in the process, we become slaves to our own actions and thirst for revenge? Then we'll have lost.
The incorporeal and corporeal fed off of each other every day, waxing and waning in unison to achieve equilibrium. Following this train of thought, Olo came to the conclusion that destroying the ideas of MNU would not be enough; the employees would carry the concepts away to re-create the company.
We couldn't kill, though. That would make us no better then them...would it? Was it okay to kill those who have killed innocents? The scars that action would leave are unimaginable. They'd never leave, so that meant--
His beliefs had been wrong all this time; he had assumed that things were better then they actually were. Ideas never die, but they could kill, quite easily in fact.
That was it. I wanted to walk away from this voice, but where would I run to? Nevermind that my legs were somewhere out of reach...I couldn't run away. It had taken root in my brain, digging into the tissue and sparks of thoughts like a tapeworm, seeking the warmth and spinning out accounts of my actions, my wrongdoings, what I failed to do and what I failed at doing. Little offspring, little mini-worms to repeat the process. Would they chew their way out of me to infect others, or would I just carry them along inside until they ate up everything and left a shell? A shell...that was interesting...an organic puppet to hide their lithe bodies from the world. Could they actually do this--would they do it? There was no way I could know, no way I could ever know.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Kurt Jackson, the one who kidnapped me, has outdone himself. This...he's not a person, this thing...captured and interrogated several poleepkwan refugees and finally killed them after extracting the information it needed. What it found is not important--what matters is that innocents were mindlessly killed; not just that, but innocent children! Nobody should be killed out of malice or ill will, but children are our future...by killing them, MNU deprives us of a chance to move on and change. It's awful...this should never happen to any race. No parent or friend should have to watch a young life torn away from the earth.
Many of my friends want to see this pawn of MNU dead, but would it help? I can't condone violence--I can't, it's in my nature, but I'll try to reason this out. Killing him would make him a martyr at the worst, another excuse to crack down on the poleepkwa in one of the best cases. Not only that...would it be adequate punishment? A quick death to pay for the deaths of many? No. No, he has to be kept alive, if only as a maimed,scarred, withered shadow of a person, to experience the suffering he's brought on us all.
Many of my friends want to see this pawn of MNU dead, but would it help? I can't condone violence--I can't, it's in my nature, but I'll try to reason this out. Killing him would make him a martyr at the worst, another excuse to crack down on the poleepkwa in one of the best cases. Not only that...would it be adequate punishment? A quick death to pay for the deaths of many? No. No, he has to be kept alive, if only as a maimed,scarred, withered shadow of a person, to experience the suffering he's brought on us all.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Hope, by Olo Lamna
The time has gone and passed us by;
the clock has struck the hour.
We've yet to break these cursed chains
and see our freedom flower.
Many before us have closed their eyes
and left us all behind,
and many more will do this still--
it's a quality of the times.
But while our breath still sobs from lips
and cries of protest ring,
and the bullets flow, from guns and clips
to mangle everything;
As long as we have life in us
we'll fight, at any cost
for we are not beaten, we are not broken--
and the battle has not been lost.
the clock has struck the hour.
We've yet to break these cursed chains
and see our freedom flower.
Many before us have closed their eyes
and left us all behind,
and many more will do this still--
it's a quality of the times.
But while our breath still sobs from lips
and cries of protest ring,
and the bullets flow, from guns and clips
to mangle everything;
As long as we have life in us
we'll fight, at any cost
for we are not beaten, we are not broken--
and the battle has not been lost.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Freedom, by Helen Hunt Jackson
What freeman knoweth freedom? Never he
Whose father's father through long lives have reigned
O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained.
Though from his youth to age he roam as free
As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstacy.
But he whose birth was in a nation chained
For centuries; where every breath was drained
From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be
Such thing as freedom,--he beholds the light
Burst, dazzling; though the glory blind his sight
He knows the joy. Fools laugh because he reels
And weilds confusedly his infant will;
The wise man watching with a heart that feels
Says: "Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still."
Whose father's father through long lives have reigned
O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained.
Though from his youth to age he roam as free
As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstacy.
But he whose birth was in a nation chained
For centuries; where every breath was drained
From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be
Such thing as freedom,--he beholds the light
Burst, dazzling; though the glory blind his sight
He knows the joy. Fools laugh because he reels
And weilds confusedly his infant will;
The wise man watching with a heart that feels
Says: "Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still."
Reading.
We need to teach our children how to read and write--not only in our own language, but in others. So much knowledge can be found in books if only one can read them...for most of my life the only sources of knowledge I had were abandoned books that I would find, and (please let me not be vain in saying this) I'm intelligent today. That's not it though. Books can be teachers, but they offer something else; other viewpoints. With a good book and a good mind you can see through other's eyes and understand the world as they do. This may be a sentimental thing to say, but I believe it to be true, and I believe that we poleepkwa have plenty of good minds. The only problem is supplying them with books and works of literature.
I can guess what some of you may be thinking...'why read works by humans?' 'Why should we see the world as they do?' 'How would they know what we have suffered through?' and many variations of this. I understand that MNU tries to suppress our minds by feeding us human ways and forbidding us from learning of our own culture. This cannot go on...we have to know who and what we are and where we came from; that's a right that everyone should, could and must have. But being proud of your people shouldn't mean you deny the knowledge of other cultures--that's the viewpoint MNU seems to have, and it's thinking like that that has gotten us here in the first place.
By reading and learning of others you can understand them; by understanding them you can make peace with them; by making peace with them you prevent war and bloodshed. Too many have died for us to not jump at the chance to make things right.
We need to read and write in as many languages as we can--human, poleepkwa, or others alike. Reading may not come easily to everyone, but it must be done. The cries of the poleepkwa for freedom can be found not only on our lips, but in the written words of the humans that suffered before us. We are not the only ones who've been through this, and we can learn from them.
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/freedom_poems.html
http://www.poemhunter.com/poems/freedom/
http://www.poets.org/
http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/
I can guess what some of you may be thinking...'why read works by humans?' 'Why should we see the world as they do?' 'How would they know what we have suffered through?' and many variations of this. I understand that MNU tries to suppress our minds by feeding us human ways and forbidding us from learning of our own culture. This cannot go on...we have to know who and what we are and where we came from; that's a right that everyone should, could and must have. But being proud of your people shouldn't mean you deny the knowledge of other cultures--that's the viewpoint MNU seems to have, and it's thinking like that that has gotten us here in the first place.
By reading and learning of others you can understand them; by understanding them you can make peace with them; by making peace with them you prevent war and bloodshed. Too many have died for us to not jump at the chance to make things right.
We need to read and write in as many languages as we can--human, poleepkwa, or others alike. Reading may not come easily to everyone, but it must be done. The cries of the poleepkwa for freedom can be found not only on our lips, but in the written words of the humans that suffered before us. We are not the only ones who've been through this, and we can learn from them.
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/freedom_poems.html
http://www.poemhunter.com/poems/freedom/
http://www.poets.org/
http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/
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