Monday, December 23, 2013

the triumph...of sorts

Hey, I survived! I was originally going to write a sonnet detailing my adventures and slayings of the beasts and how I reached my end goal and more or less stumbled into a triumph, but...nope. I'm still taking some time off. So...see you all next year!!

Friday, December 13, 2013

I'm going on an adventure...

Why has this blog been silent as a night? Well, I'll tell you. I've been battling scores of monsters as I trek across the mountains and trudge through swamps and deserts. It has been brutal, but I have slain the Classi monsters finally. Tonight I strike down another Shownus beast, which leaves three more of the pack, and the tail, Striki. While I adore the Showni, they have come at a time when I am hunted by more monsters than I knew existed. I have a Projectus major stalking me and three different Charta major coming in from the north, south, and east. And in a few days I'll emerge from the swamps only to begin the climb up the Finale Mountains, the most difficult peaks I have yet faced. So forgive a bit of a longer absence. I have dangers to face and conquer. Best of luck to my fellow adventurers. I must go now. The Shownus approaches.

Sunday, December 1, 2013


I will collect these flowers I don’t want:
Helichrysum, myrtle, Adonis, rosemary.
Sever them with a sickle and dash them
To the untouched floor.
And when I have shaken off all the petals,
I will burn down the barn until nothing is left.

With a bottle in one hand and unlit match in the other,
I will watch the conflagration.
I will dance around the flames as the leaves
Burn into silver ash.
Throwing in the match last for the satisfaction
Of watching it flare up in one last burst
Just to curl in on itself and disappear.

Then I’ll plant a new garden:
Moonwort, sweet pea, lotus, nasturtium;
And do not remark on the blackened earth
I bury the seeds in.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Fandom Poetry

For the Firefly fans.

[Warning--if you have not watched Serenity, do not read on--Spoilers. If you have watched Serenity, remember, it was all just a bad dream.]

What If, What If

What if Wash hadn’t died that time that he did?
What if Wash really had been a leaf on the wind?
And what if he’d soared through the peril, the fear,
And then landed so safely, so softly, so near?
The gasps would not have rung out from his friends and his crew
And the tears from his wife would have tempered like dew.
The shock, the unfairness, the curse toward that god
Too unfair and too cruel to be called kind or wise,
Would have melted away, turned relief and to joy.
We would not have all mourned, we would not have all cried.
We would have been happy if Wash had not died. 

Then for the Whovians who just celebrated yesterday: (again, Spoilers)


Remember that time when Moffat was kind?
When people all laughed and nobody died?
Remember just once, that everyone lives!
Everyone that is except Eleven.
But that's not 'til Christmas so we are all fine.
That glimpse of Capaldi quite blew our minds.
Yes, we laughed and we laughed and we laughed, oh so fun.
And now have some hints at what is to come.
It was joyous and excellent, oh Moffat, oh you.
What a well done and marvelous 50th tribute.


Saturday, November 23, 2013

Important Anouncement!


That is all. Please return to your regular programming.

For the very lost, follow this link. This Link

Thursday, November 21, 2013

How about Something Sharp? A Consideration of the Plastic Butter Knife

Many great minds have pondered the merits of plasticware to silverware to plain old metalware. The reality is that from ware to ware, the plastic butter knife is virtually pointless, pardon the pun. While one could certainly concede that the plastic butter knife is useful, its uselessness weighs heavier on the scale of perfect tableware.
            The butter knife in silverware sets, and that tableware not made from silver but called silver nonetheless because it is shiny, is useful beyond spreading butter. Using the lightly serrated edge and a bit of pressure, one can induce the knife to cut through soft objects, such as pancakes, waffles, breakfast foods, and spaghetti. The plastic counterpart to this tool is not so constructive.
            The plastic butter knife cannot cut food. To cut food with it, one must use the fork to rip the food apart while holding the food item in place with the knife which is sure to snap under the pressure. The 'serrated' edge could not saw through pudding, and if one tried to stab something with it, the knife would bounce back even if the food was not a school cafeteria's food. And unlike its sturdy metal cousin, the plastic butter knife cannot even spread things well. The butter must be thin or else the knife breaks.
            What then is the fate of this utensil? Is it to be disregarded completely? Absolutely yes it should be. The only purpose the plastic butter knife serves is to complete a set of knife, spoon, and fork.

Friday, November 15, 2013

A Thought About Lady Macbeth

            Some women are assertive. Some women are aggressive. And then some women are murderous. Lady Macbeth is all of these and more. What more could one ask for in a wife?
            When Macbeth tells his dear lady wife about his prophecy that he will be king, she goes right ahead tells him that he is going to kill the king. This is called being assertive. She then tells Macbeth precisely how he is going to kill the king. When Macbeth changes his mind about the plan, Lady Macbeth insults his manhood and calls him a coward. This is called being aggressive. Then, to alleviate Macbeth's fear of failing in the assassination plot, she tells him that she will drug the king's guards and then he will put the bloody knives in their hands so that the blame falls on them. This is called being murderous.
            After Lady Macbeth describes her master plan, Macbeth exclaims, "Bring forth men-children only,/For thy undaunted mettle should compose/Nothing but males." In a more understandable English, Macbeth is telling his wife that she should give birth to males only because her fearless pluck and boldness would be better suited to raising boys than girls because she is so ruthless.
            It is her ruthlessness that spurs the play onward. Without, dear Lady Macbeth, Macbeth would never have done more than horrifically considered murdering the king. But when a man has a woman behind him who is more manly than he is, what can he do? 

[Why not? -E. Farris]

Tuesday, November 12, 2013


[Because I have been horrifically lax in posting much of anything, a poem. Forgive my absence. I've been busy. In other news, NaNoWriMo is going not much of anywhere (are we surprised? no. Why am I attempting this this month again? Right. I'm crazy.) but I have hope of catching up later. Other news? Well, it's a big ball of wibbly wobbly....not timey wimey, let me tell you, more like wibbly wobbly crashing burning, but that's a whole other topic. Anyway. The poem! -E. Farris]


I found a word in a book that I didn’t know.
It was familiar, but different. And I liked it.
I held it in my hand for a while,
Red like a garnet
And round as the golden disk of Ra.
With no warnings against it, I took a bite.
And I liked it.
I liked the juice, sweet and thick, in my mouth,
Rolling over my tongue and between my teeth,
The slight tug to pull off a piece of it.
In my ignorance of this foreign fruit, it was delectable.
Then knowledge revealed that it was not the sweet,
Salutary morsel of before. The taste edged itself with sour.
But it was in my mouth now and I could not release it,
Could not revoke the sweetness back to its foreign land.
With the cringe of a puppy expecting to be chastised,
I savor the word as it settles down in my stomach,
And spreads through my cells and liquids, not to be removed.

These others I was given, but I know them
By their face to be poison.
But they tempt me nonetheless with their shape
And with their shine, the crunch of some
And the smooth slap of others. I wonder at them
Taken so easily by others as if the poison were
Just a cautionary tale for children to prevent
Upset stomachs. I roll them between my fingers
Feeling their textures,
Surveying their colors. Without meaning to,
I lick them, hold them in my mouth,
Contemplating the bitterness, spitting them back out.
But the taste lingers and I wonder and I fear:
How bad could it be to swallow?