Sir Kalen

Life is dangerous, insidious, not to mention perfidious...

Its out to get me. And if only I was paranoid, for then I could easily dismiss it as all hysteria.

Return of Atilla the Han!!

we bring you, in dramatic form, the woeful chronicals of Atilla the Han, (herself) The Evil Baron, (himself), The goat (itself), Kittie (herself), and the court minstrel (dafishy).

In true journalistic form, and to be concurrent with modern media, we are happy to report, that Things are not going extremely well in yonder castle. There seems be war brewing (again...).

It all started back in beautiful spring, as all trouble starts. of course, we shall blame the minstrel, for failure to meet the responsibilities of his job. For you see, he has the important task of keeping the Atilla the Han amused, consoled, and generally keep her from wreaking havoc upon the poor Evil Baron. But, Drastically, (and dramatically) The Minstrel fell in love... awwwwww...

So he spent the days and songs pining away in his love, repeatedly wooing his love in songs that frankly drove Atilla the Han crazy, and thereby Dove The Evil Baron into the moat quite often...

Now, I wish I could be the one so fortunate to report, that the Minstrel Eloped with his love, kittie, and road away into the sunset, singing songs, on the back of the goat... and yes, I am reporting that, but such a series of events were hardly not fortunate. For while there was the spare moments of peace. Atilla the Han was without a minstrel! Oh horrors of horrors!!

So! in a bold move, she "attempted" to promote The Evil Baron to fulfill the vacancy. But no, Evil baron would have nothing to do with it. Such disgraces! He insisted upon being the Court DJ, and continued to persist in wearing his "DJ Suit" (please, don't ask, I was instructed to spare the readers and audiences)

Atilla the Han: kneel you Knave! You shall be honored to be my Minstrel

Evil Baron: I OBJECT!

Atilla The Han: no objections allowed, the moat stole them all.

Evil Baron: I persist!

Atilla the Han: so I see!

Evil Baron: I insist!

Atilla the Han: so do I!

(yes, this isn't going anwhere fast, its a quagmire)

(so of course, its the man's job to be logical)

Evil Baron: now see here, Minstrel's are outdated! DJ's are where its at! and Besides, I get a really cool suit!

(and this is the part of the show, where the narrator runs out of creativity, and thus ends this most drastic and dramatic nightmare, by observing Atilla the Han resort to usual recourse)

Atilla the Han chucks the doeful Evil Baron out the window, and into the moat... again. Poor guy

To be continued....

Am I?

Oh sweet mercy and rationality, it's a life! A life dear brother, a life dear father, that I live, and crave that you might vicariously enjoy it with me. To extend a hand as I flounder, and to applaud as I pick myself back up and strive forward.

It's a life my dear friend, a life not my own, and unable to be lived. Oh I beg of you, bind me not with fear! Smile demurely in the face of regret. Do not abandon rhyme for reason alone. I implore you, let rhyme bring us a smile. Tis all I ask. That my life may at least wreath your countenance with a smile. Lest I sing with the world, to a lost ideal, "Heaven queen carry me, Away from all pain, All the same take me away, We're dead to the world."

I wish I could bind what I hear in music to words...

To solve and ponder, to query and muse. To consider a mental road less-traveled. Pardon my redundancy, but Yesterday was Dec. 7, the day that lived in infamy. But has it really? What could have become of those days left un-lived? What happened to those whose futures were snatched? What could have happened? What wrongs could be undone?

Oft I visit the shrine and edifice to the unwanted elderly. That sorrowful building for the aged. And too oft do I see death there, so much so that I am no stranger to it. It is emulated in their eyes, entombed on their face. A soul who will not claim or hold on to something in this breath and vapor called life. Mortals who shun this temporal shell and beg for a release. They lie or sit incapacitated, the only human emotion is the desire for an end. If one can stretch that and find a emotional classification for it. So I have been captivated by such a demeanor, and logic has failed to prove, that such could be a decent state of mind. They fear not death, too oft have they seen it, too frequently have they escaped it, and no more do they shun it. Fain would they embrace it. Fain would they take its hand and submit themselves to its test and travel. Is it something to heralded as an outrage? Is it something to see and weep over? Is it something to decry, to strive against? Or is it another thing yet to envy? To envy, that no bonds hold them to this earth. That they will take the sacrifices that no others will risk. That you cannot threaten them with loss, for either they would gladly embrace loss, or that they have nothing to lose? I weep that such a mindset is lost on youth. That when age has rendered limb and body useless, and time has dulled the senses, that then they take on an attitude that would morph them unstoppable. I am reminded of the poem, "Sin is a monster of such awful mien, that to be hated, needs but to be seen. But seen to oft, familiar with face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace." Could death equally be something of such a mein? For I no longer fear it. I've seen it too often. I've watched it haunt those halls, and prey upon souls. I've pitied it in the faces of those around me. Now, I would fain embrace it.

Oh it crushes at everything mortal in me! Too oft do I walk those halls, too oft am I the spark of youth in the suffering aged. Too frequent am I a small source of little consolation. It grinds away at all emotion, either leaving one ragged, or hardened. Masculine pride decries that raggedness, and so we hardened. Hardened, no longer the youth that took fancy. No longer the eager soul who oft traveled the road of dreams. A youth who woke to see emotions, dreams, and loves, as facades, as something shallow and shifting. Not something desirable to build a life around. Too many times have I seen the sparks fail to ignite, I've literally seen a life abandon its shell. I cannot take such a delusion anymore. For I cannot touch those lives, I cannot have the mere thought of them resting on my shoulders. That I, in my ministry am the only spark of youth they see, The only shadow of a life that once was. The bitter reminder of days and paths gone by, and irreversible

The aura of the night. Of night, when men are men, women, are women, and the mask and facade we assume by daylight is stripped away. That mystique in which we seek the cover of. This phantom and shadow of night, the mind wander in its hollow and hallowed halls. That dark cape of thundering silence, which rolls across the earth, shattering any delusions which mankind put up. Leaving behind a trembling naked mind, cowering before an audience of reality that pose to it questions. Questions of the worst kind! Kind questions, searching questions, seeking questions, probing questions. Summons that seek answers not found on this earth. Questions of mans existence, of his purpose, rhymes and reason. Yet more and more questions! Vitriolic questions, acerbic questions, morbid questions, lurid questions, bitter questions. Questions that cut to the core and hollow of a man. Barbs flung at us, seeking not justification, reason, logic or answers, but vengeance, spite, and hate...

Then there is the calm night, of prose and poetry. Of contemplation, where one basks, and ponders the philosophical, theological, scientifical, hypothetical, simple, romantic, and tender things of this world. A night of beauty and peace. Where the world and reality fade into a backdrop, leaving us the audience of the stars and the mystical.

Or, The dark of the night, we call it the inky black. Not the dark of questioning or pondering, but the bleak face of disparagement. That crushing blackness that lurks around the body and soul, cursing us, crushing us, conforming us... That blackness of which we oft strive against in futility, and eventually submit ourselves to it. That writhing, wreaking, and wracking pain of despair, desolation, and death of light. A night of anguish, curses, moaning and nightmares.

An this night rolls in an inky black... with an audience of reality to mock us. To laugh in scorn, to fling questions of spite and barbs of malice. That my life is now this?!? A comedy of catastrophes? A sadistic sport of scorn? A tower, a mile marker in a world of graves filled with the dead hopes and dreams of countless others who walked this very path of hope and aspirations? A jagged hull of a ship wrecked in an ocean of outside support, hope and dreams. Spilling the precious teachings of a life carefully and constantly nurtured into a cold hard sea. A diabolical opera!!! Where I! Am the victim... I! A young life promised a youth of flourish, only met with a reality of regret, bitterness, and disappointment. A youth of dreams! A childhood wreathed with an imagination! That would not deny us the right to dream. Those growing years which were ornamented with carefree laughter and joy... We seek the man who had such a past. We lost him in this present, we seek him in the future. We find him in a graveyard. Tending the cares, hurts and wounds of those crushed dreams. Nurturing a dying flame of hope, trying to rekindle the spark and embers of a carefree laughter.

The trees around him drop their leaves, mother nature's gentle whisper, warning of the foreboding bleak which is about to descend. Yet This man we seek, he notices it not. The wind rustles through, change and the frost rides in its wake. Yet our man feels it not. He is trapped, lost in his grasp unto a world that seeks to pass away. He will be lost in the change and age which is about to be ushered in. We cannot help him. Too late it will be when we pry his cold fingers from the past. Fingers frozen, not just from rigor mortis, but hardened in sorrow, twisted by despair, contorted by the lurid passion of bitterness.

He too will be condemned to be just another tower, mile marker, in a world of graves filled with the dead hopes and dreams of countless others who have walked that very path of hope and aspirations...

This my friends, is it something really out of the ordinary?

Of my bellybutton!

Ah ha, come one, come all, ye jealous hordes, envious of my bellybutton! The time of your life is before, exposition of a bellybutton, where the dreams of an imagination come to fruition born from fantasy!

*to be continued*

(hey, its late, I need my sleep, and my rationality) :D