writing this haiku
an exercise in counting
feels more like math class
Friday, October 17, 2014
Friday, September 05, 2014
Why Kurt Godel Couldn't Write Love Poems
"Why certainly" you say,
but how do you know it's so?
You seem to think that proof
Will guarantee what you know.
But even in a realm
As clear cut as the numbers,
Shades of uncertainty
Awaken from their slumbers.
If some of math's own truths
Float upon a proofless sea,
Then what slight hope have you
To prove your love's truth to me?
but how do you know it's so?
You seem to think that proof
Will guarantee what you know.
But even in a realm
As clear cut as the numbers,
Shades of uncertainty
Awaken from their slumbers.
If some of math's own truths
Float upon a proofless sea,
Then what slight hope have you
To prove your love's truth to me?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
happy birthday
my duties i might wish to shirk,
but here i sit, stuck at work
no chance to laugh, no time for mirth
to celebrate my day of birth
the clock seems dead, the minutes stick,
i think i might be feeling "sick"
i wonder if i could get away
to celebrate this happy day
but here i sit, stuck at work
no chance to laugh, no time for mirth
to celebrate my day of birth
the clock seems dead, the minutes stick,
i think i might be feeling "sick"
i wonder if i could get away
to celebrate this happy day
Thursday, May 01, 2014
This Geeky Week
A quick look at the current calendar (not so much a blog post as I place for me to record the schedule. You may find this post skip-worthy).
May 1: BASIC turns 50 (coincidentally, so does my ex-wife); also, on a non-geeky note, National Day of Prayer and (for the pagans) Happy Beltane
May 2: Both kids are in honor band in, then son has prom that night (hey, it's MY calendar, but if you need geeky for May 2, then remember it's E.E. "Doc" Smith's birthday).
May 3: Free Comic Book Day (heck, yeah!)
May 4: Star Wars Day
May 5: Anniversary of Alan Shepard being the first American in space (1961); also, the birthday of Lance Hendriksen; also, some kind of Cinco de Mayo celebrations occur, I think...
May 6: The birthdays of Sigmund Freud and Orson Welles (both geeky, in their own ways)
May 7: Anniversary of space shuttle Endeavor's first mission launch (1992); also, the anniversary of the deaths of Robert Kanigher (2002) and Ray Harryhausen (2013)
So... that's the first week of May for me. Hope y'all have a happy week.
May 1: BASIC turns 50 (coincidentally, so does my ex-wife); also, on a non-geeky note, National Day of Prayer and (for the pagans) Happy Beltane
May 2: Both kids are in honor band in
May 3: Free Comic Book Day (heck, yeah!)
May 4: Star Wars Day
May 5: Anniversary of Alan Shepard being the first American in space (1961); also, the birthday of Lance Hendriksen; also, some kind of Cinco de Mayo celebrations occur, I think...
May 6: The birthdays of Sigmund Freud and Orson Welles (both geeky, in their own ways)
May 7: Anniversary of space shuttle Endeavor's first mission launch (1992); also, the anniversary of the deaths of Robert Kanigher (2002) and Ray Harryhausen (2013)
So... that's the first week of May for me. Hope y'all have a happy week.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Super Star Trek
Super Star Trek is the name of an old-school ASCII computer game. You can google it. This post has nothing to do with that game, except that both this post and that game involve intellectual property from the Star Trek universe.
* * * * *
"Super-heroes, Mr. Spock? Isn't that... unlikely?"
Spock nodded in agreement with his captain's assessment. "Nevertheless, Captain, it appears to be the case. Three humanoid beings are floating in space 50 meters in front of the Enterprise, without the benefit of pressure suits or oxygen. Instead, they are clothed in primary colors and sport capes and masks."
McCoy was grinning from ear to ear. "Put it on the view screen, Jim. Hey, maybe Superman is out there. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?"
"It would, indeed, Doctor McCoy," the captain replied. "Mr. Chekhov, pull up visual on the main view screen."
"Aye, Keptin."
Hovering in front of the dark, star-speckled vastness of space were, in fact, three humanoid-looking forms. One was a brown-haired man in a half-mask clad in a a green and black single piece uniform. One was a green-skinned bald man in a blue cape. The third was a large, dark-haired man in a blue suit, red cape and boots, and a big red S on his chest.
"I'll be..." said McCoy, "It is Superman, and Green Lantern, too! But I don't recognize that green-skinned one. If his ears were pointed, I'd think maybe some kind of Vulcan super-hero."
"Vulcans do not have super-heroes, Doctor. We believe in admiring actual people rather than stories and legends."
"They look pretty real to me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "And the green-skinned one is the Martian Manhunter."
Spock arched an eyebrow at the captain.
Kirk grinned, "There wasn't a whole lot to do during the long winters growing up in Iowa. I read... a lot."
Kirk pressed a button on his chair, activating the comm. "Transporter room, lock on to the 3 life forms in front of the ship and beam them aboard."
* * * * *
"I don't believe it," thought Hal Jordan through the telepathic link the Martian Manhunter had established between the three of them.
"Believe it," J'onn thought back. "I detect hundreds of minds on board."
"And I can see them with my X-ray vision," Superman thought. "They're all dressed just like in the original series. And, Hal, Kirk looks just like William Shatner."
Hal smiled. "We need to get inside that ship. Maybe we can--" his thought was cut off as the three of them were caught in the Enterprise's transporter beam.
* * * * *
"--wave and get their attention."
"It appears," said Superman, out loud, "that we already have." He looked down from the transporter pad into the inquiring gazes of Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Scotty: all of whom were characters in a cancelled television show, not real flesh and blood people. But here they were, looking exactly like the actors who portrayed them looked 50 years ago. And in an actual working starship Enterprise.
* * * * *
Despite the delight he had expressed earlier, McCoy was skeptical that these beings were actual 20th century comic book characters come to life. More likely another god-like alien picking up images from the crew's minds and choosing to assume a form that fit the heroic ideal. He scanned the three men on the transporter pad with his tricorder. Sure enough, two were alien, different from each other, and like no alien race on file. The third one, the "Green Lantern" was... "Human, Jim. The man in the mask is from Earth. Chemical analysis of his body's cells would be consistent with someone living in the late 20th, early 21st century in the industrial West."
At that moment, a green light shot out from the Green Lantern's ring and passed over the assembled Enterprise crew. "Well, ring," Hal asked, "What are they?"
"Three humans, birthplace: earth. One unidentifiable alien."
Despite himself, McCoy grinned again, "You see, Spock, even the Green Lantern's ring can't identify you."
"Doctor, please," Kirk said, before Spock could reply. "We have guests. Gentlemen, I am Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise."
"We know," Superman said. "And the Vulcan is Mr. Spock, that's Doctor Leonard McCoy, and Montgomery Scott. But, of course, you aren't really them, since they are characters on an old television show, and even if they were real, they wouldn't be born for another two hundred years."
"And I don't remember any episodes where they interacted with the Green Lantern Corps," Hal said. "So, who are you?"
"Fascinating," said Spock. "They appear to believe we are fictitious characters, even as we believe the same of them."
"Fictitious? Us?" Hal said.
"Yes," J'onn said. "They believe we are comic book characters, and that this is the 23rd century. And they know about us, although some of them are confused, but Kirk knows our names, abilities, and secret identities. He read them in comic books when he was growing up in Iowa."
"A parallel earth?" Superman asked.
"That would be a logical explanation," answered Spock. "But hardly the only one. More likely that you are aliens masquerading as these comic book heroes or else artificial biological constructs of an alien technology that truly believes themselves to be what they have been created to appear to be."
"Spock, I scanned them. We've had a whale of a lot of experience with god-like aliens and artificial life forms. I tell you, man, that Green Lantern is from 20th century earth."
Kirk held up a hand. "Everyone, it's clear we need to sit down and discuss how we all came to be here, and to figure out where here is, to everyone's satisfication. Why don't we all adjourn to the meeting room and sit and discuss this over coffee?"
"A good idea, Captain," Superman said.
Spock led the way, and McCoy and Kirk brought up the rear. After everyone else had left the transporter room, Scotty shook his head, "I'll be needin' a drink." And then he headed out in search of just that.
* * * * *
"Super-heroes, Mr. Spock? Isn't that... unlikely?"
Spock nodded in agreement with his captain's assessment. "Nevertheless, Captain, it appears to be the case. Three humanoid beings are floating in space 50 meters in front of the Enterprise, without the benefit of pressure suits or oxygen. Instead, they are clothed in primary colors and sport capes and masks."
McCoy was grinning from ear to ear. "Put it on the view screen, Jim. Hey, maybe Superman is out there. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?"
"It would, indeed, Doctor McCoy," the captain replied. "Mr. Chekhov, pull up visual on the main view screen."
"Aye, Keptin."
Hovering in front of the dark, star-speckled vastness of space were, in fact, three humanoid-looking forms. One was a brown-haired man in a half-mask clad in a a green and black single piece uniform. One was a green-skinned bald man in a blue cape. The third was a large, dark-haired man in a blue suit, red cape and boots, and a big red S on his chest.
"I'll be..." said McCoy, "It is Superman, and Green Lantern, too! But I don't recognize that green-skinned one. If his ears were pointed, I'd think maybe some kind of Vulcan super-hero."
"Vulcans do not have super-heroes, Doctor. We believe in admiring actual people rather than stories and legends."
"They look pretty real to me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "And the green-skinned one is the Martian Manhunter."
Spock arched an eyebrow at the captain.
Kirk grinned, "There wasn't a whole lot to do during the long winters growing up in Iowa. I read... a lot."
Kirk pressed a button on his chair, activating the comm. "Transporter room, lock on to the 3 life forms in front of the ship and beam them aboard."
* * * * *
"I don't believe it," thought Hal Jordan through the telepathic link the Martian Manhunter had established between the three of them.
"Believe it," J'onn thought back. "I detect hundreds of minds on board."
"And I can see them with my X-ray vision," Superman thought. "They're all dressed just like in the original series. And, Hal, Kirk looks just like William Shatner."
Hal smiled. "We need to get inside that ship. Maybe we can--" his thought was cut off as the three of them were caught in the Enterprise's transporter beam.
* * * * *
"--wave and get their attention."
"It appears," said Superman, out loud, "that we already have." He looked down from the transporter pad into the inquiring gazes of Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Scotty: all of whom were characters in a cancelled television show, not real flesh and blood people. But here they were, looking exactly like the actors who portrayed them looked 50 years ago. And in an actual working starship Enterprise.
* * * * *
Despite the delight he had expressed earlier, McCoy was skeptical that these beings were actual 20th century comic book characters come to life. More likely another god-like alien picking up images from the crew's minds and choosing to assume a form that fit the heroic ideal. He scanned the three men on the transporter pad with his tricorder. Sure enough, two were alien, different from each other, and like no alien race on file. The third one, the "Green Lantern" was... "Human, Jim. The man in the mask is from Earth. Chemical analysis of his body's cells would be consistent with someone living in the late 20th, early 21st century in the industrial West."
At that moment, a green light shot out from the Green Lantern's ring and passed over the assembled Enterprise crew. "Well, ring," Hal asked, "What are they?"
"Three humans, birthplace: earth. One unidentifiable alien."
Despite himself, McCoy grinned again, "You see, Spock, even the Green Lantern's ring can't identify you."
"Doctor, please," Kirk said, before Spock could reply. "We have guests. Gentlemen, I am Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise."
"We know," Superman said. "And the Vulcan is Mr. Spock, that's Doctor Leonard McCoy, and Montgomery Scott. But, of course, you aren't really them, since they are characters on an old television show, and even if they were real, they wouldn't be born for another two hundred years."
"And I don't remember any episodes where they interacted with the Green Lantern Corps," Hal said. "So, who are you?"
"Fascinating," said Spock. "They appear to believe we are fictitious characters, even as we believe the same of them."
"Fictitious? Us?" Hal said.
"Yes," J'onn said. "They believe we are comic book characters, and that this is the 23rd century. And they know about us, although some of them are confused, but Kirk knows our names, abilities, and secret identities. He read them in comic books when he was growing up in Iowa."
"A parallel earth?" Superman asked.
"That would be a logical explanation," answered Spock. "But hardly the only one. More likely that you are aliens masquerading as these comic book heroes or else artificial biological constructs of an alien technology that truly believes themselves to be what they have been created to appear to be."
"Spock, I scanned them. We've had a whale of a lot of experience with god-like aliens and artificial life forms. I tell you, man, that Green Lantern is from 20th century earth."
Kirk held up a hand. "Everyone, it's clear we need to sit down and discuss how we all came to be here, and to figure out where here is, to everyone's satisfication. Why don't we all adjourn to the meeting room and sit and discuss this over coffee?"
"A good idea, Captain," Superman said.
Spock led the way, and McCoy and Kirk brought up the rear. After everyone else had left the transporter room, Scotty shook his head, "I'll be needin' a drink." And then he headed out in search of just that.
Thursday, March 06, 2014
Change? Good or Bad, Is It Even Possible?
"At 46, it's just too late to change your life." That's what the well-meaning voice in my head tells me. I have to admit, it's tempting to listen to the voice. A certain complacent surrender to my remaining years. Wistful regrets sipped like lukewarm whiskey from a chipped coffee mug, a dull comfort in the long night that is the Rest of My Life.
Except... the math doesn't really support it. I'm (obviously) 46 right now. Let's say I live to be 80. 34 years to go, more behind me than before me. Looks like the math is in the voice's favor. However, let's look a little more closely at those 46 years. The first 18 were spent in childhood. Any changes now can build from those years. They don't count against the remaining years (or, alternately, they count for them). Either way, 18-80 is a total of 72 years, with 34 to go that means I've lived 38 of those years. Still past the halfway mark, but not by much. OK, let's see if we can tip the balance. Undergraduate education. Important, true. But hardly definitive. Lots of people go directions nowhere near what they studied at college. If I can scratch those years, then 22-80 is 58 years, with 34 to go, that means I've lived 24 of them. Not even at the halfway point of my adult life. So... too late to change? Not even close.
Ah, but, dude, retirement is 65. 22-65 is 43 years, with only 19 remaining. Definitely past the halfway point. You're locked in, man. Listen to the voice. It's wisdom. I suppose it would be, if I were merely talking about career. But if I'm talking about something else, something more lifelong, something like... a calling, then I think I can consider it fair to use the 80 mark as the outer boundary. "A calling?" the voice asks, "when did that happen? Why wasn't I in the loop on this one? After all, I live in your head." Well, I never said that I had a calling. I never even said I was considering a change in my life. I merely went through the exercise of showing that even at 46, it's not too late, contra to the voice of conservative comfort in my head. "Well, if it's just an intellectual exercise, knock yourself out, kid. Just don't go getting any ideas, okay?" We'll see...
Except... the math doesn't really support it. I'm (obviously) 46 right now. Let's say I live to be 80. 34 years to go, more behind me than before me. Looks like the math is in the voice's favor. However, let's look a little more closely at those 46 years. The first 18 were spent in childhood. Any changes now can build from those years. They don't count against the remaining years (or, alternately, they count for them). Either way, 18-80 is a total of 72 years, with 34 to go that means I've lived 38 of those years. Still past the halfway mark, but not by much. OK, let's see if we can tip the balance. Undergraduate education. Important, true. But hardly definitive. Lots of people go directions nowhere near what they studied at college. If I can scratch those years, then 22-80 is 58 years, with 34 to go, that means I've lived 24 of them. Not even at the halfway point of my adult life. So... too late to change? Not even close.
Ah, but, dude, retirement is 65. 22-65 is 43 years, with only 19 remaining. Definitely past the halfway point. You're locked in, man. Listen to the voice. It's wisdom. I suppose it would be, if I were merely talking about career. But if I'm talking about something else, something more lifelong, something like... a calling, then I think I can consider it fair to use the 80 mark as the outer boundary. "A calling?" the voice asks, "when did that happen? Why wasn't I in the loop on this one? After all, I live in your head." Well, I never said that I had a calling. I never even said I was considering a change in my life. I merely went through the exercise of showing that even at 46, it's not too late, contra to the voice of conservative comfort in my head. "Well, if it's just an intellectual exercise, knock yourself out, kid. Just don't go getting any ideas, okay?" We'll see...
Thursday, February 27, 2014
The Moon's Heart
I am the moon. I reflect the light of the Sun. At my best, I reflect so much of His light that the night is well-lit. Other times, the things of the world come between us, casting a shadow across my face, so I only reflect some of His light. At my worst, I hide behind all the world has to offer and reflect none of His light. But even then, when the night is darkest and I completely fail to reflect His light, there is still light. Even the new moon is visible. The heavens are never so dark as to leave even this old moon alone. The Sun and all of His stars are always there, and I can always hope to begin again, a new moon means a new opportunity to bathe in His light, to reflect His glory, even to let His light shine from me onto the very same world I hid behind from Him. As long as there is a sky, and as long as I am a moon, the Sun will always be there, giving me a chance, night after night, month after month, to shine in the light of His love.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Top Ten Favorite Comic Book Couples
Yeah, this should have pictures. Maybe I'll add some later. And, no, you're not suppose to care about my opinions on these things. And, finally, yes, I am clearly a DC fanboy.
- Barry and Iris: "marital bliss"
- Swampy and Abby: "unconventional relationship"
- John and Zatanna: "still friends (of a sort) even after the break up"
- Querl and Kara: "star-crossed (and time-crossed) love"
- Bruce and Selina: "opposites attract"
- Wally and Linda: "marital bliss (mostly), now with kids"
- Hal and Carol: "on again, off again"
- Dick and Kory: "young love"
- Joker and Harley: "unrequited love is crazy"
- Clark and Lois: "the classic (comic book) love story"
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Why Aquaman Rocks
- He lives in the ocean (not just BY the ocean, but IN it. Screw "beachfront" how about "all in"?)
- He is King of Atlantis (that's right, he's the sovereign ruler of a long lost mythical kingdom. What are you sovereign ruler of?)
- He's stronger than you (unless you're one of a very select group of people, e.g., Superman, Aquaman can take you out in a fight. Probably without much effort).
- He's tougher than you (able to withstand ocean depths that crush some submarines. Odds are you could break your leg tripping over your own feet).
- That mental telepathy with fish thing (no, he doesn't talk with fish. Fish are stupid. They can't hold up a conversation. But he can influence them... with his brain. My brain just barely influences my own self, let alone anything not physically connected to it)
- No secret identity (yeah, he's "really" Arthur Curry, but Arthur doesn't have some mundane day job and a cheap little apartment somewhere. He's always Aquaman, and the closest thing he has to a day job is King of Atlantis, see #2 above).
- His costume (admit it, you couldn't pull off orange and green. Aquaman does, somehow. Dang, he's cool...)
- He carries a trident (sure, a giant fork seems funny, until 300 pounds of solid Atlantean muscle has it pointed at your heart. Then, less funny... unless you're Joker-level crazy).
- He loves his wife (whether it's the version where she's crazy, or an assassin sent to kill him, he loves her. Heck, in the Flashpoint timeline he was willing to destroy the surface world because Wonder Woman killed Mera.)
- The Justice League accepts him (you can laugh all you want, but Batman and Superman picked him to be on their team, not you. If he's good enough for the likes of the World Finest to pal around with, who are you to judge him?)
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Night Thoughts
Two cats on an old gray gate,
Purring softly while the hour's late;
Gazing down, the old, old Moon,
Listening to the cold wind's tune,
Wonders if those on Sleep's sweet slope
Still believe in the myth of Hope.
And there was evening and morning, another day-- until there just aren't anymore.
Purring softly while the hour's late;
Gazing down, the old, old Moon,
Listening to the cold wind's tune,
Wonders if those on Sleep's sweet slope
Still believe in the myth of Hope.
And there was evening and morning, another day-- until there just aren't anymore.
A Cold Refusal
A DC Comics fan fiction. All characters owned by DC Comics. This tale is totally done without permission, etc.
"Not interested," said the man in the blue and white parka. He picked up the half empty mug of beer on the counter in front of him and took another sip. In the relative silence of the mostly empty bar, the mug made a distinct thud when he placed it back down.
"Not interested? Come now, Captain. Surely you don't expect me to believe that you are not interested in making an easy million." The man in the green three piece suit smiled at his seated companion.
"Not interested in the job, Nigma."
"The job? The job is easy. Easiest heist ever." A pause. "Perhaps there are other factors underlying your absurd refusal."
Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, took a quick, deep breath and silently counted to three before saying, "What the hell are you talking about? And if you're suggesting what I think you are..."
Edward Nigma raised his hands in a show of protest. "I'm not suggesting anything. I perfectly understand that you prefer to operate in Central City. It's a Nice Place. The police are Nice, your colleagues are Nice. Even your superheroes are Nice. Relative to some of the other members of the Capes and Cowls Club. It must be wonderful, not having to deal with a violent psychotic who is truly scarier than any of us so-called 'villains.' Tell Flash I said 'hi' next time you chat."
Snart turned towards Nigma. "You think I don't see what you're trying to do here, Riddler? You think if you suggest I'm afraid of Batman that I will sign on, just to prove something?" Snart shook his head. "Ain't happening."
"I never suggested that you were afraid of Batman. I just said that you have it 'nice' here in Central City. Of course, you'd have to be mad to not be afraid of Batman. He's decidedly... Not Nice."
"Look, Nigma, Bats is scary, but in the end it's about taking a beating, physically and, you know, psychologically. The psychological beating comes from losing, and we always seem to lose. Even if we do pull off a crime successfully, we keep pulling more until the hero beats us. If I was afraid of constant failure, I woulda given this life up a long time ago. And as far as physical pain goes, you ever been hit by a super-speed punch? You're a smart guy. Force equals mass times acceleration, and no one does acceleration like a speedster."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"And do what? Sell refrigerators at Sears? I started out as a thief. But when I met the Flash, I became something more. At first, he was just a nuisance, but eventually he became a symbol of everything that I would need to beat to live in the world that I wanted to live in. Same holds for the rest of the Rogues. I'm guessing that's not much different than you Arkham loonies and Batman."
He glanced at Edward, who offered only a quick nod as a response, so Snart continued. "If I'm going to commit a crime without the Flash's interference, it's going to be because one of us Rogues beat him. Not because I slipped off to Gotham to be a henchman for one of the Bat villains."
"So, 'no' is your final answer?"
Snart nodded. "Besides, ya got Fries in Gotham. Why not tap the local ice bad guy?"
After a moment's silence, Cold grinned. "Lemme guess. You did, and he turned you down?"
"Victor is not really a team player. He has his own agenda."
"Killer Frost? Icicle?"
Nigma sighed. "Yes and yes. I even looked up the current Chillblaine while I was here in Central City."
Snart shook his head. "It seems no one wants to play with you. Might be something to talk to your shrink about when Bats throws you back into Arkham." He turned back to his drink.
Edward Nigma started to step away.
"Hey, Nigma, I'm gonna assume that you came to me last because you knew I'd say no, and not because I was your last choice."
Edward suppressed a smile while turning back. "Of course, dear Captai--" Snart was still drinking his beer, but he had his cold gun aimed at Edward's head.
Snart finished his drink, pulled some money out of his parks's pocket and tossed it on the counter. Getting off the stool, he holstered his gun. "Good, 'cause I'd hate to have had to prove myself to you." Then he walked past Edward and crossed the floor to the front door where he exited without a single glance back.
"Well," said Edward to himself, "that could have gone better. Still, there's always plan B."
"Not interested," said the man in the blue and white parka. He picked up the half empty mug of beer on the counter in front of him and took another sip. In the relative silence of the mostly empty bar, the mug made a distinct thud when he placed it back down.
"Not interested? Come now, Captain. Surely you don't expect me to believe that you are not interested in making an easy million." The man in the green three piece suit smiled at his seated companion.
"Not interested in the job, Nigma."
"The job? The job is easy. Easiest heist ever." A pause. "Perhaps there are other factors underlying your absurd refusal."
Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, took a quick, deep breath and silently counted to three before saying, "What the hell are you talking about? And if you're suggesting what I think you are..."
Edward Nigma raised his hands in a show of protest. "I'm not suggesting anything. I perfectly understand that you prefer to operate in Central City. It's a Nice Place. The police are Nice, your colleagues are Nice. Even your superheroes are Nice. Relative to some of the other members of the Capes and Cowls Club. It must be wonderful, not having to deal with a violent psychotic who is truly scarier than any of us so-called 'villains.' Tell Flash I said 'hi' next time you chat."
Snart turned towards Nigma. "You think I don't see what you're trying to do here, Riddler? You think if you suggest I'm afraid of Batman that I will sign on, just to prove something?" Snart shook his head. "Ain't happening."
"I never suggested that you were afraid of Batman. I just said that you have it 'nice' here in Central City. Of course, you'd have to be mad to not be afraid of Batman. He's decidedly... Not Nice."
"Look, Nigma, Bats is scary, but in the end it's about taking a beating, physically and, you know, psychologically. The psychological beating comes from losing, and we always seem to lose. Even if we do pull off a crime successfully, we keep pulling more until the hero beats us. If I was afraid of constant failure, I woulda given this life up a long time ago. And as far as physical pain goes, you ever been hit by a super-speed punch? You're a smart guy. Force equals mass times acceleration, and no one does acceleration like a speedster."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"And do what? Sell refrigerators at Sears? I started out as a thief. But when I met the Flash, I became something more. At first, he was just a nuisance, but eventually he became a symbol of everything that I would need to beat to live in the world that I wanted to live in. Same holds for the rest of the Rogues. I'm guessing that's not much different than you Arkham loonies and Batman."
He glanced at Edward, who offered only a quick nod as a response, so Snart continued. "If I'm going to commit a crime without the Flash's interference, it's going to be because one of us Rogues beat him. Not because I slipped off to Gotham to be a henchman for one of the Bat villains."
"So, 'no' is your final answer?"
Snart nodded. "Besides, ya got Fries in Gotham. Why not tap the local ice bad guy?"
After a moment's silence, Cold grinned. "Lemme guess. You did, and he turned you down?"
"Victor is not really a team player. He has his own agenda."
"Killer Frost? Icicle?"
Nigma sighed. "Yes and yes. I even looked up the current Chillblaine while I was here in Central City."
Snart shook his head. "It seems no one wants to play with you. Might be something to talk to your shrink about when Bats throws you back into Arkham." He turned back to his drink.
Edward Nigma started to step away.
"Hey, Nigma, I'm gonna assume that you came to me last because you knew I'd say no, and not because I was your last choice."
Edward suppressed a smile while turning back. "Of course, dear Captai--" Snart was still drinking his beer, but he had his cold gun aimed at Edward's head.
Snart finished his drink, pulled some money out of his parks's pocket and tossed it on the counter. Getting off the stool, he holstered his gun. "Good, 'cause I'd hate to have had to prove myself to you." Then he walked past Edward and crossed the floor to the front door where he exited without a single glance back.
"Well," said Edward to himself, "that could have gone better. Still, there's always plan B."
Friday, May 17, 2013
An Apology (Well, Not Really. Not Even Much of an Explanation)
So, yeah... nothing for months, and then a crappy song and two really weak poems. It's been one of those kinds of... what's the word for a period of time longer than a month but shorter than a year? "season"? It's been one of those kinds of seasons. Maybe? Regardless, I find myself desiring to drop bits and pieces of my nonsense once more into the waiting receptacle that is this blog, from which cybernetic plumbing it is flushed into the sewers of your minds. Telecrapathy, if you will, though I for one wouldn't, and really, why would you? But here we are with our predetermined roles to play, I write this drivel, and you read it, though, again, I really wouldn't (read it, that is. Although by now you're wishing I wouldn't write it, either). Alright, more tomorrow, or next week, or next season...
The Limerick of the Cowardly Golem
There once was a golem of wet clay,
who was skilled in all forms of melee.
But things weren't quite right,
when he got in a fight,
he would collapse and just roll away.
(Note: while Gumby is, arguably, a clay golem, this poem is not about him. He is brave, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for him. I'm thinking of something more like a D&D golem, only, you know, more cowardly.)
who was skilled in all forms of melee.
But things weren't quite right,
when he got in a fight,
he would collapse and just roll away.
(Note: while Gumby is, arguably, a clay golem, this poem is not about him. He is brave, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for him. I'm thinking of something more like a D&D golem, only, you know, more cowardly.)
prozac puppet
i've got my act together
i'm as peachy as can be
since i've been on prozac
there's been nothing much to see
i have got a ready smile
and a quick and easy grin
too bad it's all a lie
there's just nothing left within
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
i used to cry through the night
when i couldn't sleep at all
now if it's after nine
i won't even hear your call
i never would have thought that
it could ever be like this
that being a real boy
is a thing that i could miss
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
bridge:
well i don't feel love
and i don't feel pain
all of my "feelings"
are just thoughts in my brain
and i don't feel hope
i don't feel despair
yeah i don't feel a thing
and i really don't care
because
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
if there ever comes a day
when my heart feels as before
pinocchio will die
and my soul will live once more
but until then
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
(copyright 2013, Moon Jester Radio, a division of Anarchic Syllogisms Unlimited)
i'm as peachy as can be
since i've been on prozac
there's been nothing much to see
i have got a ready smile
and a quick and easy grin
too bad it's all a lie
there's just nothing left within
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
i used to cry through the night
when i couldn't sleep at all
now if it's after nine
i won't even hear your call
i never would have thought that
it could ever be like this
that being a real boy
is a thing that i could miss
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
bridge:
well i don't feel love
and i don't feel pain
all of my "feelings"
are just thoughts in my brain
and i don't feel hope
i don't feel despair
yeah i don't feel a thing
and i really don't care
because
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
if there ever comes a day
when my heart feels as before
pinocchio will die
and my soul will live once more
but until then
chorus:
i'm just a prozac puppet
my affects are all lies
i'm just a zombie actor
a dead man in disguise
(copyright 2013, Moon Jester Radio, a division of Anarchic Syllogisms Unlimited)
Thursday, February 07, 2013
Night Visions #1
Last night I dreamed of lightning. Again. There was a vast unbroken stretch of flat land, like a dead prairie or a desert. It was night, and there were no stars, no moon, just an unspecified glow that illuminated the unending vista. And then blindness, as a white sheet tore across the sky. The afterimage of the heavy clouds had not even faded from view when thunder broke the silence, assaulting my ears and shaking my every cell with a deep, echoing growl. No sooner did the ringing in my ears stop than a coiling, writhing ladder of blue-white bolts came crackling down from the clouded heavens and danced like mad faerie creatures upon the not-so-distant plain. This column of raw power shimmered and flashed as each bolt was replaced by the next, all the while moving slowly closer to where I stood, transfixed, deafened by each fresh rending of the atmosphere, unable to move, unable to look away. At some point, the wind appeared, the dead air came to life with a biting, swirling fury. After a few moments of dumbstruck awe, the column was before me. And, just as it reached me... it was gone. The wind stop, the clouds were silent. For the span of a heartbeat, and then a single bolt ripped through the dark clouds and struck me, square in the chest, just as the thunder began... and then I was awake.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
words
words are magic
they are the dancing, empty air that can
teach,
encourage,
reveal,
communicate,
persuade,
confuse,
mislead,
destroy
words are nothing:
no thing
they exist only in the mind
yet by swirling some air
or making some scribbles on paper
or lighting up some pixels on a computer screen
one mind can cause the words in their mind to move to another mind
words are telepathy
words are power
but they are not all-power
they can stop a shooter (sometimes)
but never a bullet
they can stop a drunk (sometimes)
but never a car
they can stop an angry voice (sometimes)
but never a word already spoken
they are telepathy
not telekinesis
not time travel
the magic of words is enchantment
and the mind most enchanted by any given person's words
is their own mind
our words create our vision of reality
even when the words we use came from others
it is our words that give them power in our minds
our words that repeat their words
until we do not know where the words came from
only that they are there
but the secret of words is not just that the words of others are just words
the secret is that all of the words are just words
even the ones we tell ourselves
they are the dancing, empty air that can
teach,
encourage,
reveal,
communicate,
persuade,
confuse,
mislead,
destroy
words are nothing:
no thing
they exist only in the mind
yet by swirling some air
or making some scribbles on paper
or lighting up some pixels on a computer screen
one mind can cause the words in their mind to move to another mind
words are telepathy
words are power
but they are not all-power
they can stop a shooter (sometimes)
but never a bullet
they can stop a drunk (sometimes)
but never a car
they can stop an angry voice (sometimes)
but never a word already spoken
they are telepathy
not telekinesis
not time travel
the magic of words is enchantment
and the mind most enchanted by any given person's words
is their own mind
our words create our vision of reality
even when the words we use came from others
it is our words that give them power in our minds
our words that repeat their words
until we do not know where the words came from
only that they are there
but the secret of words is not just that the words of others are just words
the secret is that all of the words are just words
even the ones we tell ourselves
Thursday, March 01, 2012
I Love Free Software
So I missed the actual "I Love Free Software Day" (it was February 14. I think I was likely busy hiding from Valentine's Day). So let me give a shout out to the Free Software Foundation Europe's cool campaign to express love for free software and the people who make it and promote it. Personally, without the folks behind LibreOffice, VideoLAN, gPodder, Slackware, and Linux Mint (to name the tip of the iceberg), my computing life would be Much Less Fun than it is.Same holds true for podcasts like The Linux Action Show and Linux Outlaws. Beyond that, so much of the infrastructure of the Internet is built on free software that even die hard Apple fanboys and Windows suits rely upon Free Software almost everyday of their online lives.
On behalf of me, to everyone who makes, supports, promotes, or in any other way contributes to free software: my sincerest "thank you!" from the bottom of my heart!
On behalf of me, to everyone who makes, supports, promotes, or in any other way contributes to free software: my sincerest "thank you!" from the bottom of my heart!
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Friday, December 16, 2011
Christopher Hitchens is Dead
For once I'm glad no one reads this blog any more. I want (need?) to have a place to record these thoughts, and maybe even a sense that I've put them out there, as part of the public tribute to the man, without actually making them public in any meaningful sense of the word...
It was with deep, though unsurprising, sadness that I read the words this morning, "Christopher Hitchens is dead." Unsurprising describes my sadness, I fully expected to feel his death as a personal loss, and it also describes his death: we all knew it was just a matter of time, for he had been sick for so very long.
I never knew Hitchens. As I am a Christian, he would have considered me an enemy of all he held dear. So be it. But I was an "enemy" who was drawn into the writings and thought of this worldly British man of letters. Whether commenting on Central European politics, the work of George Orwell, or the poisonous folly of belief, Hitchens's writings had a way of speaking to my soul. I found God Is Not Great to be neither a shallow defense of anti-theism (as some Christians had) nor a devastating argument which destroyed my faith (as some now ex-Christians have). Instead, I read the words of a man who cared deeply and passionately about his fellow humans and was pleading, through as carefully a crafted appeal of logic and rhetoric as he could muster (and that was, by no means, inconsiderable), for us to repent of our evil for the salvation of the world. While I disagree with his identification of religion as "evil" I certainly respect his evangelist's heart. And, if we are being honest, I cannot completely dismiss his arguments that religion has fueled much evil in this world...
As an American, I share my countrymen's predisposition to be impressed and enthralled with English accents. I actively sought out podcasts and youtube videos where I could listen to Hitchens speak, and speak he could, like no one else. I could (and I say this because I have) listen to Hitchens talk for hours. My first read through of God Is Not Great was not a read at all, it was a listening to of the local public library's audiobook version, read, of course, by the author. When I later read the printed word, the voice of the man echoed through my head. Since then, my brain has supplied his voice to all of his writings, be that in Vanity Fair or some his older works I tracked down and savored. Letters to a Young Contrarian works particularly well with a "read by Hitch" brain conversion. (Incidentally, my copy has a picture of Hitchens in trench coat and holding a cigarette, which echoes my other English anti-hero, John Constantine. A character I suspect Hitch would have deplored, being rooted in a world of angels and demons).
Christopher Hitchens, like all of the so-called "New Atheists," made me think. I know that many in the theological and apologetic communities dismiss the New Atheists as being but pale shadows of the (by comparison) Old Atheists. I am undoubtedly a more shallow thinker than my fellow Christians, as evidenced by my judgment that the New Atheists raise important points, some of which I do not believe have been adequately answered. Maybe I'm just not smart enough to see the answers as adequate. Maybe I'm too fallen to get it. Maybe that's why I can admire people like Christopher Hitchens. Maybe.
Or maybe I get that Hitchens and Dawkins and all the rest are human beings, made in the image of God, endowed by their Creator with value and worth and dignity and gifts that, while not being used, perhaps, according to His will, nevertheless, to the eyes of faith, still shine forth as testament to the creative love of our God. At least, that's how my Christian mind sees it.
Christopher Hitchens voice and writings have been a significant part of my life for a few years now. And as inappropriate as it may seem, I feel a profound sense of loss. But how much more those who knew the man as friend, as family? My heart goes out to those who have lost a real, physical presence in their lives. The world has lost a public figure, but they have lost someone with whom their life paths were intertwined, that real interdependence we have with those of our local tribe or clan. My prayers are with them, though many of them find such sentiment distasteful.
Christopher Hitchens, cancer stopped first your voice and now at last your words entirely. But it will take the slow cancer of the years to end your influence in the hearts and minds of those who knew you or were touched by your work.
It was with deep, though unsurprising, sadness that I read the words this morning, "Christopher Hitchens is dead." Unsurprising describes my sadness, I fully expected to feel his death as a personal loss, and it also describes his death: we all knew it was just a matter of time, for he had been sick for so very long.
I never knew Hitchens. As I am a Christian, he would have considered me an enemy of all he held dear. So be it. But I was an "enemy" who was drawn into the writings and thought of this worldly British man of letters. Whether commenting on Central European politics, the work of George Orwell, or the poisonous folly of belief, Hitchens's writings had a way of speaking to my soul. I found God Is Not Great to be neither a shallow defense of anti-theism (as some Christians had) nor a devastating argument which destroyed my faith (as some now ex-Christians have). Instead, I read the words of a man who cared deeply and passionately about his fellow humans and was pleading, through as carefully a crafted appeal of logic and rhetoric as he could muster (and that was, by no means, inconsiderable), for us to repent of our evil for the salvation of the world. While I disagree with his identification of religion as "evil" I certainly respect his evangelist's heart. And, if we are being honest, I cannot completely dismiss his arguments that religion has fueled much evil in this world...
As an American, I share my countrymen's predisposition to be impressed and enthralled with English accents. I actively sought out podcasts and youtube videos where I could listen to Hitchens speak, and speak he could, like no one else. I could (and I say this because I have) listen to Hitchens talk for hours. My first read through of God Is Not Great was not a read at all, it was a listening to of the local public library's audiobook version, read, of course, by the author. When I later read the printed word, the voice of the man echoed through my head. Since then, my brain has supplied his voice to all of his writings, be that in Vanity Fair or some his older works I tracked down and savored. Letters to a Young Contrarian works particularly well with a "read by Hitch" brain conversion. (Incidentally, my copy has a picture of Hitchens in trench coat and holding a cigarette, which echoes my other English anti-hero, John Constantine. A character I suspect Hitch would have deplored, being rooted in a world of angels and demons).
Christopher Hitchens, like all of the so-called "New Atheists," made me think. I know that many in the theological and apologetic communities dismiss the New Atheists as being but pale shadows of the (by comparison) Old Atheists. I am undoubtedly a more shallow thinker than my fellow Christians, as evidenced by my judgment that the New Atheists raise important points, some of which I do not believe have been adequately answered. Maybe I'm just not smart enough to see the answers as adequate. Maybe I'm too fallen to get it. Maybe that's why I can admire people like Christopher Hitchens. Maybe.
Or maybe I get that Hitchens and Dawkins and all the rest are human beings, made in the image of God, endowed by their Creator with value and worth and dignity and gifts that, while not being used, perhaps, according to His will, nevertheless, to the eyes of faith, still shine forth as testament to the creative love of our God. At least, that's how my Christian mind sees it.
Christopher Hitchens voice and writings have been a significant part of my life for a few years now. And as inappropriate as it may seem, I feel a profound sense of loss. But how much more those who knew the man as friend, as family? My heart goes out to those who have lost a real, physical presence in their lives. The world has lost a public figure, but they have lost someone with whom their life paths were intertwined, that real interdependence we have with those of our local tribe or clan. My prayers are with them, though many of them find such sentiment distasteful.
Christopher Hitchens, cancer stopped first your voice and now at last your words entirely. But it will take the slow cancer of the years to end your influence in the hearts and minds of those who knew you or were touched by your work.
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