The final stand

The lights revealed the size of the arena we chose to meddle. Our eyes revealed the caliber of the characters we resolved to mock. Our hands held the tools that we had crudely shaped from dirt, our feet revealed the shoes that had been cruelly shaped by work. In our gaze we saw defeat masqueraded as "the opposition". Our hearts harbored hope in a resolve of resignation. before us stood the conductor, and he readied us to play. We knew the time was then, so we scared the fear away.

We played our instruments at the urging of the conductor, producing discordant tunes of clanging and cracking. We rallied round the symbol, danced to the tuneless cymbal, stared in share defiance and charged to the highest note. The conductor reinforced our confidence as he boldly lead from the front. What manner of man will stand for the rogue orchestra that plays a soulful earsoar. Life was what we gave and life was what we got.

We laughed through that questionable and most trying moment. We created an ugly masterpiece, and that picture changed us. We saw the audience scream, close their ears and duck for cover. We were instigated by hate, but justified by love. We stood in columns and rows, and fell in rows and columns. We played like a single orchestra, and countered the orchestra's single. As the nuisance of our noise was silenced by "real" music, we hoped that our stand will soon surpass its sin. We smiled and basked in the triumph of our defeat. We lived to sin no less, and slept to sin no more.

between the page and the pen

If intent dictated efficiency, Tanzania will today be Utopia. The finest men are lost between the page and the pen, that microsecond kill zone has trashed the best of us: Cantor, Nietzsche, Garvey, Mao, they saw but could not draw. Having something to say with no way to say it is best likened to an imprisoned gypsy. First you see now you dont, well actually its they who dont. Cursed be the less dynamic mind. Revolutionary theories have always been synonymous with the abstract so we might as well be reading all the diaries of a destitute drunk. More often than not the theorist is destitute and drunk , we either redefine theory or reconsider "junk".

Between the pen and the page the greatest warriors have fallen. One tried to explain the possibility of multiple infinities while the other declared God was dead. These assertions apparently just came out wrong as this was not exactly what they saw in their head. But as they picked up that pen with intent to put glory on paper something somewhere became less representational. Thus a supposed "great leap forward" became the "greatest travel backwards", something died between the page and the pen.

The complexity of nurturing an idea from inception to its birth is one we will never fully come to appreciate. We get blinded by possibilities and fail to see the irony, like driving a prius right up to your private jet. It is almost as pathetic as a pandering politician that picks his pride from leading in the polls.
Corruption of the worst is at worst barely an event, but the compromise of an idealist is at best a global catastrophe. Between the page and the pen there have been many global catastrophes.

priorities

I see the sand, an hour glass and a crippled sun. the persistence of the night has birthed a crippled son ... No vitamin D and no thrills of a fresh day, just darkness, only night and no one writes in fake light. I see the implosion of the meek, the explosion of the obstinate, the enthronement of a recluse and a rowdy church service. The stillness of the night is nicked away by lost praises, but the "praisers" have long lost the lonely link to whom they praised.

They said it was me. I said it was I, so the search for the primary culprit was reduced to a debate on semantics. We then wrangled in a "complex" battle of intellectual wits, with each side making no headway in seeking to establish exactly "what the queen would have said". With a completely extinguished sun and a strangely malnourished child, it was justified and right to ensure that what we did was right and we could only confirm the right by proving just who said it right. They said it was me. I said it was I, now the real issues and accusations have faded into the pitch black sky ... At least a major mystery that has tailed us for eternity will finally be put to rest: "How exactly would the queen have said it" will no longer be a pest.

The central question is no longer "who" but how to point "who" out. Political correctness and etiquette now holds center piece to major problems. "All must be heard in the great debate of me and I", but its pointless right now because the malnourished kid just died. "Never mind and dont be bothered about that random dead son, there will be plenty more to instigate the debate wherever that one came from. We also have the other trivial issue of a completely extinguished sun, we should address if the S should be written in capital whenever the former debate is done".