UHUM & AHEM!

And uhuh and amen. Somehow I never ever get ANY blogger notifications any more. I don't know why, I keep plugging on my poetry blog next door. Anyhow, I'm going to say something strange. 

Nah. It wasn't strange. I deleted it. It was more off or odd or similar. Not ducky enough. 

One time, I walked into a building mid-construction, and found stacks of two-inch-tall-by-four-inch-wide boards. They were really long, and I was a child at the time so I hit one of them with my clenched fist about as solid and hard as I was able because I wasn't walking, but running. I was chasing someone, or being chased, but man - that wham right on the stacked and packed ends of those boards. 

It really put paid to whatever I was doing just then, and my whole hand was so tight and clenched, hot and throbbing that I couldn't unmake a fist. I had to just keep it like that for the time being. I showed the kid I'd been playing with. They touched it gingerly. Looked at me like "it's your hand." I was like I KNOW! Hurts like a damn bandit caught red-handed in an ill-advised burglary of the pain store! Got what I came for, but damn if I know WHY. 

It hurt for days. My fingers were not into unbending, or bending again once unbent. I remember being in school with this weird hand, thinking about the unbuilt building (par-built, really) and how fun it all could have been in there, if I didn't swing my arms with such unfeigned enthusiasm, or had perhaps developed more situational body awareness vis-a-vis surrounding objects, or even - who knows? Improved hand-eye coordination? Could have helped? 

It couldn't have hurt. Not any worse, anyway. What if somebody had yelled "Think fast!" as I ran in and a ball was flashing towards my head? And both hands flew up just in time - perfect catch!  

As I flew by the stacked boards, not even realizing my close call. And - who threw the ball? 

There was no one there. It was my guardian angel, maybe. But then I left the building and went home, and there was no one anywhere. The earth had been deserted, or everyone snatched up - eaten by angels? I was the only one left - or maybe in that moment everyone had been shunted aside into their own personal parallel planet of endless solitude, doomed to wander alone and eke out an aching sad lonely existence 'til death? 

All told, I'll take it how it actually happened. It doesn't make much of a story, but it's a piece of a pretty good life. So far. 

A can, a ham, a them and damn, I miss you Broshlanders, Derf I am

 That's it. I hope you're well etc.

For passing Gimos, and other assorted Broshlanders.

 Hello, hi, and other greeting sundries. 

I trust you all are well, as you've always been well in your own right. I know The Broshland went under many MANY moons ago, and for the most part, I have not tried to reach out too much. Let the past be the past, right? 

And yet. I think about y'all to this day. I hope you're all well, and having golden brown grilled cheese sandwiches punctuated with freshly squeezed juice of your preferred fruits. I was barely there for the lifeline of Very Serious, but I regret deeply not keeping in touch. I wish I called you, Sir Gimo. You gave me your number and said 'call when you please" and I never did. I wish I had. I wish I would try to this day. I still have it written right next to me. I don't know what I'm doing. ANYWAY.

As for the rest of y'all Broshlanders, I'm not about to start trying to name names, accidentally leaving peeps out, but just know some random Derfthing goblin remembers and loves y'all, and uh...I dunno. Take care. =] Be safe. A third thing that reinforces those first two things etc. Now here's an old sketch of Smallsy that I still need to paint:

As if you had

As if you had to hope, you tried.
There wasn't any truth denied.
There wasn't any evidence, to rein
you in by rains of sensory deceit
or trickery. No optical illusions,
we - no auditory counterfeits. For
it's all here, and it all fits.
There once were fairy tales of dells
and forests, dragonless with elves
made up all stiff like mannequins.
We've done them up in motley,
smart as harlequins and rode them off
in pantomime upon our costumed,
clumsy back - a mighty hoss
we made between us two - so many
trips we took, so many forth
and back again, for denizens
to safely cart away.

In case it burned.

And when it did, we went to town
with trucks of elves, turned out
and all marked down to sell.
And if no one would buy? Well.
Towns burn too, you know. In such
fine ways we cleared out youth,
the magic and accouterment we always knew
would have to go. Washed it, wiped it
clean as snow and settled in
for greater things. Now it's
all here. And it all fits. It's bound
for greater things we are, and bound
by greater sentiments. There wasn't
any truth denied. There wasn't any
evidence, but finally or now, we find
a relevance, upwelling from within
to take us long ways 'round, and
all the long ways back of homes.
We know what we shall finally find:
behind some picket line of fence,
with sole protesting garden gnome:
a lasting peace. In lasting place,
where finally we'll be released.
The finish line. Home safe,
yell "base!" and slap your hand
on cold concrete, as all the chasers
running lost, yell "Tag!" "Not it!"
until they're beat.

The haven't been happening

The haven't been happening came to the other day. It wasn't a normal. First we all looked, then it seemed as though we were going to have to. But there would be a soon, very hopefully to deal with. Later, the party and all we were. Nobody could have!

Without the second, it was going to have to wait a minute. Fortunately, though - we suddenly have.

Never again could anyone ever, not after such a sense we had - tremendous, in those days. Why, it's a marvel no one's made a name of it. What could it be then? What could it mean?

Only such things as have always fallen together, haply by accident, as if fate's chance had finally come. Would you?

A Fools Game

        Ah, dearest sounding board. We meet again. Long has it been, and dark, since I last scrawled the echoes of souls long lost but not forgotten for all and none to read. Today, we're going to talk about the folly of feelings, and what they can mean for the future. Shall we? We shall.

Ahem.

For many moons now, I have felt a feeling. GASP! I know, I'm as surprised as you are. This feeling though is...rather destructive to the idea of a community, and downright pathetic when you, or at least I, get right down to it.

The feeling is one of burden. O' what glorious burden! Or hindrance, as my few friends must surely have heard me say this month. I find myself questioning my presence in the lives of those I love and respect, and whether or not that presence is a terrible detriment to their growth and well being. Anyone who has known me for any measure of time will tell you it's not easy having me for a friend. Trust issues not withstanding, there is a cold but unyielding desire to punish myself for both perceived and unperceived wrongs I feel I've inflicted upon this world.

Namely, that of cursing better people to know me. It's odd that I've entered into so many great friendships with this mechanic in play, which only feeds into my trust issues because surely they do it out of jest. A joke, I say. That's what I am here. A fucking joke. There's no way in seven hells that these fantastic and inspiring people are at all moved by me and my exploits. O', but I am indeed enchanted by the purity and palpability of your ponderous persona.

And that's when the feeling of burden sets in. Even with these awful thoughts about these great people, which we will address further rest assured, I enter into these relationships despite it all. I thrust unto them my flaws and failures and get raw, unfettered kindness in return, which in turn makes me want to be a more kind and understanding person. It's all well and good, right? Alas, perhaps it's only on my end.

I never really took the time to think about what my bullshit persona was doing to them, but I knew with a bone-deep certainty that it can't be good. Fie, I cried! What good am I amid these radiant and rolling hills replete with the neat?

Bullshit sentiments, I know, but bear with me.

Thus begins the silly self sabotage and distancing of any and all that ever dared enter a Derfly heart. I push them away thinking I know what is best for them. Yes, these people who are far better and understanding than I cannot perceive the error of their knowing me. God forbid they know their own hearts!

And so I push.

and push.







and push them further away until at last whatever light I reflected their way becomes as ash in their eyes. I sully whatever goodness they found in me by being terribly shitty to them. I sometimes wish I could shed this reprehensible behaviour. If not for me, then for them. They deserved better. Not just better, but *my* best. I fail to see this time and time again and it's all punctuated by the fact that they are now gone from my noise and I cannot apologize. I can't be forgiven for thinking so nasty about them. They never wanted to hurt me. I know that. Sadly, I don't *always* know it, as knowing is such a fleeting thing in my little world and one that I can scarcely trust in.

Though, the worst of it all, naturally, is not getting to know them anymore. Never sharing again in the midday doldrums and nightly heights. I can never again be supportive of them. I can never delight in them having a good day, nor sympathize and bandage wounds if it was a day less so. I've lost so many this way. Would that it were not so.

Alas, I must live with these choices now. If I could take it all back, I would, but at the same time I would not dare to try and wriggle out of the feelings I so clearly earned. I will feel them full and press on with these glowing personalities in mind, in a feeble attempt to be better than this...

...and fail at that, too.

 Oy vey, dear readers. Oy fucking vey, I am tiresome.

Have a great week!

Extra, Extra! Calling all Gimos! WHUUUUT?

Arguments between the Id and other abstractions #1: the Conscience?

I finally figured out the difference between us, sir. You are Haughty in Righteous Cause. Sometimes even with righteous cause! Not I.

I, I, I am arrogant in all matters of inconsequence. So long as they call to me, I thrill to rush in, conscious in my exaggerated sense of self and worth! This is arrogance: to hold an exaggerated or falsely high estimation of self or self worth. I know I am arrogant. I glory in it, I glory in what calls me, I rush in to it - dauntless more than brave, heedless more than courageous - but those as well, surely. In valor, we may say, so long as we leave the better part. I find I have rushed in before conscious of the call, and as I fly through and out of the frame gang-tackling it, I feel at the very least equal to it.

Superior, maybe. But that isn't a bad thing! If it can be managed, one should find ways to be superior to all one's calls.

Things that threw me Vol. 1

Every now and then we come across people, places, or situations that stop us in our tracks and make us think "Hang on, what was that about exactly?" and what do we do about things that throw us? We write about it and then regret having done so later maybe. Probably. It is highly likely that I will regret this later. Now onwards!

Instance #1 - Oh daddy. 

A lovely lady, who shall remain nameless, saw fit to share existence with me once, and in the throws of passion one night began to say "Oh daddy". My issues with my own father as well as my rejection of child birth aside, this really fucking threw me. What where the implications of that exactly? Where did it come from? I'll never know as I was too afraid to ask at the time, but it keeps me up at least three nights of the year. I should have asked. 

Instance #2 - Ice Bucket Challenge

I get the efforts to raise awareness about a cause, but seriously, what the fuck? Is it really prudent, especially now of all times when even the first world countries are having water shortages, to be dumping an excess of the stuff as if it were worth nothing? The arguments for this are odd to say the least. "The total sum of the waste is akin to what we lose from pipeline leaks in a single day" they say, as though that were a satisfactory justification of the flagrant entitlement they're swimming in. Surely if that is what's lost in a day as it is, we shouldn't be so eager to throw more out? Is viral video really worth throwing it into the faces of the less fortunate on a global scale? I dig that they raised awareness and donations for this ALS business but I can't say I agree with their methods. It's sad that that's what it takes to draw some much needed attention these days. I dread the day there's a "totally fresh and clean food bucket challenge BECAUSE WHATEVER THAT 30,000,000 ODD PEOPLES SUM TOTAL OF WASTE IS AKIN TO THE FOOD WE LOSE IN WORLDWIDE DRUNKEN VOMITTING IT'S TOTALLY LEGIT". But I digress. 

Instance #3 - Cinnamon Bun Flavoured Potato Chips

I don't need to get into this one, do I?

Instance #4 - I Just Don't Like It

Y'know the sort of people I'm talkin' about. If you are having difficulty articulating just why it is you reject a particular person or idea, it's probably because that rejection is totally unfounded and you're just being a contrary-for-the-sake-of-being-contrary dick. If that's your thing though, by all means, enjoy ambling around with no real opinion of what it is you claim to dislike. Who needs reason, anyways am I right? I am.

I reckon that's enough for now. I hop off the soap box. Now I've finished with you, you may go.

Clearly, it doesn't matter. CLEARLY, IT DOESN'T MATTER!

Why is that always the cry, huh? Why should it matter before we partake? I can't for the life of me understand the logic of the "unless it amounts to something specifically geared toward my interests in the long run, I shant be a part of it!" mindset. When you break anything down in this world, can you honestly say any of this shit matters? And who decides what makes the grade and what doesn't exactly? You can't say it's each and every one of us that decides because it's fucking not. THIS matters to me. THIS can matter to others. Even if it didn't though, that's a shitty reason to avoid doing something. 

I try to think of a place, nay, an idea to live in. An idea that doesn't stifle creativity, but nurtures it. The idea? That nothing has to matter to exist. That this inconsequential thing can be given the opportunity to matter one day but need not worry about it now. That this meaningless thing can perhaps inspire a person, or several people, to do something that matters if it only had a chance to be. We are all a swarm of matter whose lineage can be traced back to Father Nothing. I feel like people like to forget that. I wish it weren't so. 

So I say to you my faceless, mouthless, duodenumless cult of whiskey slayers. Dare to do those things that don't matter. You might just find a universe of possibility in them. Now, a Dead Poets Society quote. Ahem:

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

Does Anybody Else Love Sherlock Holmes!

This one time, the old professor in the crime scene house (the murder occurred downstairs - the prof's assistant) was a smoker; he had some particularly NICE ones which Holmes recognized, enthused over as an aficionado - next thing you know, Holmes conducts the whole interview pacing back and forth, chain-smoking like a spaz and gesticulating wildly, filling the whole fucking room up with smoke as he and the prof have their little talk.

The whole point of this big act (apart from to put the professor at ease with all this unforced camaraderie) was so he could pop his head in the door an hour later and see where the murderer had been hiding! The tracks were right there in the scattered ash. She had been concealed in a cabinet or something. The professor knew it all the time.

HOLLLLLLLLLLLLMES!!

What a fuckin' weirdo that guy was, you know? Or what about the time he knocked the fucking oranges over and blamed it on Watson! Watson was like "what the fuck?" Still, Watson kept a cool hand, suspecting Holmes had a big fucking foot in the game. Which he did. Which he always did. I can't help but love Sherlock Holmes and his outré ways! It could be he is even as arrogant as myself.

It wasn't always so. Me and my love of Sherlock Holmes, I mean. I had a copy of the big huge A. Conan Doyle collected, "Compleat" as it were - couldn't fucking get any headway through it at all! Why, it might as well have been the fucking Bible at that age. I forget how old I was at that point, but I wasn't understanding the charms it had hath. So to speak. Anyhow, then years or decades later I see the Robert Downey Jr. / Jude Law ones - fairly recent films. Now I'm the first to admit Downey Jr. looks nothing remotely like Holmes-as-described, OK? But I have to admit, his take on the role made a mark, and when I saw that big ol' Conan Doyle doorstop kicking around, I said "let me have another go at it."

DELIGHTFUL! I tore through the whole thing in essentially, one sitting! Punctuated by several standings and a lying down, okay, but I assure you the book was open and in progress. Just, one's bodily needs, okay? You got to get yourself a cheese-grilled sandwich, you get yourself a cheese-grilled sandwich. Unlike Holmes, we the readers aren't necessarily compelled to ignore these things just because Sherlock's all hot on the scent and shit.

And you know what? It was Downey Jr.'s incarnation of Holmes that spirited me through Doyle's collected stories. All through that book and since, I just keep on picturing Holmes as Robert Downey Jr. Every time the story mentions or describes what Holmes looks like, I'll say to myself, "that's peculiar," then pass it by. I can't seem to picture Holmes another way, now. I think it's that wide-eyed look he gives us - that look of pretended innocence in some or another matter where we know full well Holmes is up to something! Picturing Sherlock Holmes in his usual classically-depicted unimpressed bird-nosed long-limbed gawky asceticism just wasn't doing it for me. Who wants to hang out with that guy? I don't care how smart he is.

Without changing the peculiar nature of Holmes's character - his acerbity, his impatience with others and disdain for ordinary life, his delight in a challenge and in the exercise of his powers, his pride in advancing the so-called "science of detection" (basically just some bull shit he knocked together himself that nobody else can even do right), his instinct for the dramatic flourish, with all secrets kept for the big reveal - something about Downey Jr.'s take provided the key to the character for me. He made all these things click. With previous Holmeses, a lot of the time I just thought "this guy's a dick, but we need to humor him if we want these crimes solved." Basically you bite the bullet for the greater good. Whereas Downey Jr. makes that same cocktail of characteristics delightful! Delightful. I love to watch him work!

Mind you, I'm not saying a bad word about Rathbone. My mom would kill me. This Cumberbatch guy does a damn good job as well, but something about seeing Holmes running around modern London makes me say "Why not just put him on the Starship fucking Enterprise at that point?" It's not fucking Sherlock Holmes, man. A perfectly valid update/reboot, of course - putting a character in a different setting, hey, it's just done. It's one of those things they're allowed to do - whether I buy it or not. And if you're going to do it, best to do it well. In particular, I must cite the brilliant job they've updating and adapting those methods of observation and deduction. Holmes trains his magician's eye upon all modern details to deliver a classic performance each time, very much in tune with the original. A neat trick.

There Have Been No Reasons.

For a very long time now, well, an eyeblink in geological terms; no wait, a mudslide in geological terms? An eyeblink in biological terms. A ring stained in wood, in botanical terms. In relative terms, a dead uncle. In inverse cosmological terms, an eternity. In terms of vague understatement, for a while.

For a very long time now, there have been no reasons. Well, then I see no reason to start having them now. I have no truck with reasons. I don't need to explain my reasons. I don't cotton to those. You're not the boss of me, but you are pretty boss I must admit, and I need to do a better job frankly. No reason. It just feels like it. Not even I feel. It feels.

I am going to go worry some people. I will use fingers and possibly lips, and possible a soft brush of some kind for a delicious variation in texture and sensation. I will worry them deep inside. I will worry them at their borders, at their edges, at their fringes and see if they fray. If they do, I will claim the fault for the idea, and vice-versa, and I will refute each of those claims, and I will do it easily, each in turn. See what they have to think about that! Feel what they have to taste about that. Hear what they have to stink about that. Smell what they have to say about that. Halitosis, you see, and synaesthesia: an unbeatable combination you can't get anyplace else but the human brain, or so we perceive dimly, as if through a looking twice. The human brain: a miracle of Intelligent Evolution, now on sale for a song, for a steal, for what that and a cup of coffee will get you, which depending on the steal could be fine, imprisonment, I don't care.

There have been no reasons since I gave up that last cigarette, and the one after that, and the one after that. Technically, what I'm giving up is less the cigarette than the butt. Are you surprised that I would give up the butt? I couldn't help it. My health was at stake. To be honest, what I miss now was that smooth, relaxing, satisfying flavor. And you could say this whole thing may have gone South, and not even ventrally - which would not be so bad, which could be lovely depending on one's pet taboos and the disparate acts and personal variables of persons and attraction-math that all add up (as far as you're concerned) to the magic number 144 on your personal scoreboard: gross! That's right, and you shouldn't be surprised. I am running the dozens now. Ask your mother. She will tell you the same damn score, and give no reason. She isn't the whore in this particular yo' momma joke, pimp. Look in the mirror.

I am.

Regarding Birthdays

Fuck the usual disclaimers, let's get straight to the asinine bullshit. 

So. Birthdays. Hip hip and tally ho! What is a world without a little celebration, yes? We get together and we do things and occasionally those things do us, or maybe we do those things to each other and it's great. Why? Because you reluctantly slid out of what will eventually become an angry vagina for a very long time afterward, or were given the old birthing ice cream scoop procedure as I like to call it. Caesarean Section for all you folks with more than two brain cells to rub together.
I like my way better personally but then I would, wouldn't I. 

Anyway. This is your day, man or woman or whatever. Eat, drink and be merry, for on this day you are more than a hairless monkey baby. Oh no. Today, you are a golden eagle soaring majestically over the land. We take all the shit you've dumped on the world over the last year and just shovel it down our necks for you. Forget that time you got way too drunk at the Halloween party last year and tried to finger my girlfriend. It's okay. It totally doesn't matter that you backed over our dog when you made good your drunk driving escape either. Water under the bridge, pal! Because IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY, BRAH! LET LOOSE!

Or at least, that seems about the jist of it sometimes. Even without all that sweeping of shit under the carpet for an evening, as far back as I can remember I never particularly cared for birthdays. Oh sure, like any kid I was receptive of the gifts I totally didn't deserve, unhealthy snacks and cakes, and the absurd activities that can go hand in hand with the potential onset of diabetes. But deep down, there was always this sense of dread there for me. I still don't know exactly where that comes from to be honest. Maybe it's the reminder that death is a full waltz closer to asking you for your hand as you sit against the back wall, nursing a warm glass of life. I really couldn't say. Anyway.

People tell me it's to celebrate ones life and the like, and indeed that is a very sweet sentiment to put across. I can dig it. At the same time though, I wonder why everyday we spend with one another isn't celebrated, excluding the days when you're an asshole naturally, because there are those days, right? You need to vent, you need to chill, you need time to stop pondering how hard of a punch the offending party deserves and sometimes it's you but that's okay. We make mistakes and we punch each other for it and maybe we don't do that offending thing again.We probably will but look, we forgive. WHY CAN'T THAT BE A THING, WORLD?

Y'know, it's funny though. Even with all that shit I just said, and how much I truly believe it...sometimes I remember someones birthday that I no longer spend time with and I get a little sad. I start obsessing about it until nothing else feels solid and it's at this time that I start to see my own little piece of beauty in what I consider a yearly spit in the face. I don't feel sad for the parties we'll never have, or that I couldn't celebrate that particular day with them. It's not even that I'm grateful for the day their parents fucked and gave my old friend life, though serious kudos go to them for that.

No no, mine is a sadness altogether more fucked up, but potentially far more sweet if you're broken enough to see into this shitty mirror I use to reflect. 

I'm sad because I'm reminded that we aren't slowly dying together anymore. I loved slowly dying with you. You died in ways I'll never know or get to share in this year, and that's a bummer. I still celebrate your existence everyday, but it's just not the same. 

So this is me, Mr. FuckBirthdays saying Happy Birthday, old friend. Wherever you are.

Derf out.