Late night laugh

Not many laughs to be had lately, I must say, with pronounced disdain and distress. And not enough tear-worthy events either. I was just pondering the mechanisms by which extreme sadness can be turned into trouser-wetting humor by a mere effort of will. However, as John the Revelator would put it, that which is merely warm shall be spit out of the mouth of God.

Not to be asking for a lightning-bolt jolt back to reality or purgatory, depending on the mood, but wouldn't a tobacco-spittin', six-shooter blastin', saloon-door kickin' deity have made any sane man quiver with hysteria in a rational world?

And further more, based on the assumption that paradontosis is an affliction common especially to older people, and the biblical fact that we have been created in the image of God, I say, shouldn't it be understandable that this respective deity should very much enjoy the presence of some warm and neutral-tasting food in his mouth rather than a hot or icy fluid that could easily cause jolts of universal pain?

Well, ranting has it's own pace. May it be be gentle and graceful. And if you have nothing nice to say, at least try to make it interesting.

Old McDonald

No, I haven't taken my spots off yet. Here, enjoy this. It might kill you with laughter, have someone with you at all times to deliver the final blow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4Y4keqTV6w

Smile, it's going to get worse

Fine day today in Germany. Hot weather and blooming trees, delicious wurst and liters upon liters of ale.

A game of tension lays waste to patience, tiresome tale in a hale of words, no results. It's like doing cartwheels in space - just not spectacular, just cold and pointless. This feeling, frozen from liquid state into a perfect mirror of absurdity, placed in front of me. I write these words at night, knowing that in the morning, the rejuvenated masks that I try so very hard to make my own, will probably be able to cover my face again, will silence my bells. Prepubescent dillemas still haunt. We have these thoughts that won't converge, we try so hard to make words merge and there's no end to our attempts, as jesters mock our weathered hands. Nothing said, nothing gained, no peace lost or muscle strained, I lay relaxed and upside down, bells shimmering around my crown.

Doctors and cards

Step right up folks, step right up and get your own personal diagnostic! Whatever you want, whatever fate and skill drop in your lap! A couple of cracked jacks sir, terribly sorry, you will have trouble with gender identity as a side-effect, but your voice will definitely improve. Wrapped up king mister, we'll fit you with a nice comfy long-sleeve shirt with original western-style buckles. Lodging for free, you won't get a softer deal anywhere. Madam, I'm sorry to tell you you've got a little joker coming. Bet you didn't expect that. There're ways to deal with him though (no pun intended). Your tens are acting up, take these pills and you'll just sleep it off...

Shuffle the deck, move'em around, there's plenty for eveyone, as long as there's still a free bed to play in. If you're really, really lucky, you get to draw three cards of the same kind and bet them over and over again. Unfortunately friends, we're playing black-jack, so the queen is not a good card to pull a hattrick with... Tough luck kid, we did everything we could.

It's times like these that I'd switch over the fence to my tuxedo-wearing amigos in mostly dellusional illusion land. Have them teach me a thing or two about that dissapearing act - I can pull it off with a couple of aces, but I can't make the dealer go up in smoke. And that's exactly what needs to be done. No fun here, just bitter attempts at cartwheels. Even harlequins feel angry at times. A system where clowns can become doctors and perform their daily routines on helpless, pale and wide-eyed mimes is a circus not even fools can bear.

I love you dear friend, you're an ace up my sleeve at all times. Get well soon.

Image courtesy of ~angel-blue on dA.

Sour grapes

Pretty rants is all I seem to be able to churn out of my bells today. So here goes - courtesy of "DmanLT21" - this pretty picture of a blockhead shape finding it hard to keep cool makes me think of my own desperate attempts at ingnoring the fetish qualities of the iPod. (with the iPod Shuffle I think they're finally getting the idea - make it rounder and then it'll have parts everyone can enjoy. Oh, by the way, they actually made a vibrator - there, I went and spoiled the subtlety of the entire previous wordplay - that shakes and stirs to music from an iPod... perhaps I should have selected a picture illustrating just that...) It may be pretty strong headed, it might come from a family that I personally have only mistrust for, it might be pompous and sometimes even flourescent pink, U2 might even have a signature model, but it's also slick, fragile, shiny, with perfect proportions, elephant memory and remarcable stamina. For all that I don't like, my mind has an unbeatable argument - pretty. There. I feel like a Gilmore girl without the witty dialogue.

Puppets and clowns

It's pretty hard to find a funny drawing of a puppet these days. I browsed through pages upon pages of pictures, drawings, photos, 3d renderings and I have to say there's no color left in the puppets' cheeks anymore. No spring in their step, no guiding line of personality, no twinkle. The downfall of the puppet as it were.
We've gone from laughter to despair at their approach. Children see puppets as funny sketches of a person. People see puppets as reflections, for why else would they exploit this ridiculous gothic theme so much? And indeed, if you see a puppet and your subconscious goes "What have I become?!" you should probably watch "Child's play" again and again, for some inspiration.
Puppets usually come in two varieties: on one hand we have the hanging kin - you know, those dominated from way above by a posse of creepy individuals with serious passive-agressive disorders. On the other hand, as it were, we have those who need a hand up their (rather generous) behinds, as motor skill substitution. I'm not even going to try to make a joke about the weilders' profile this time. I do however wonder which of these two little friends scare adults more...
Where, I ask, lies freedom for a puppet? In the master's nimble fingers or by means of mocking one's own strings? Electric cables, bills, dues, relations, relatives, affairs, puppet strings for the perceptive, brutal fisting hands for the not-so-perceptive. It's no laughing matter, lest you break a string.

Dancing on the corpses' ashes

As it is with most things, music inspires me to write this. People sometimes have feelings that they can't explain. Some of these people can easily find things in this reality to tie those feelings to, creating an artificial connection that reassures them of their sanity. Such is the case of a character highly distressed by the barbaric practice of clitorectomy that still goes on in certain parts of Africa, or of yet another character, Colombine for example - her spleen is triggered by the knowledge of women disappearing like slain dogs, by the tens and by the hundreds, somewhere at the border between Mexico and the United States. Further more, a neighbor here in the blogosphere keeps a very vivid and electrically charged account of the goings on in Iraq, ever since the war began. Very relevant, very strong - I suppose it can make great material for us wounded souls to find something to blame for our emo-ness, despite the very alive and first-person meat it has on it's virtual bones.
Where can one find the "funny" in all this. It's not the funny you'd laugh at out loud. It's the type of funny a fool has to point out first for the king to be able to chuckle. Picture, if you will, all the people with a rather large and colorful bell hat on their respective heads. These hats, with many a bell, can hardly wait to stretch a little tentacle and start ringing, one way or the other, to wherever insanity wreaks havoc in a most stimulating way. And so the tentacles fly all over the Earth - from individuals in Romania to Bangladesh, from people in America to the darkest deepest jungle in Africa (where the bell only dares venture, leaving the driving mind behind), from this clown in Romania to Iraq. And now, had you kept your mind focused, you see a web of these little arms, dangling away and ringing all over the planet, like microwave alarms. And out of nowhere comes this idea that we should do something as individuals. Pandemonium - each anchored fool with his/her colored hat starts yanking away, until we all, in pairs, crack our heads against each other. And the bells roar at first, then they lay silent until the bluebirds stop swirling around in a cartoon like fashion. Down here, we call this public uproar, collective action, Live8.

I refuse to formulate a moral to this exercise.

ML

"I would die hanging in a waltz of puppets, strings tied around my neck in majestic ties, from the delicate fingers of the thin paper harlequin. I would gamble my love away on a misfortunate jest only to be reminded of the equal beat of this song, only to bathe in the musical loss that it is to me. I would drown in a pool made of mimes' hands around me, a singular audience to a mute choir of black and white stripes. I feel my lungs like wings on the inside, flapping in the air like those of a monochromous blue parrot."

A song made me feel this way about three or four days ago. It's not really dry yet, but it will be in a week or so, a gentle reminder of ridiculous enthusiasm. It doesn't take people to make one feel like a fool. It just takes a brain (albeit a slightly disfunctional one). Hence the name of this fresh blog.

Image courtesy of Cristiano Siqueira - www.crisvector.com