April 05, 2006
NOTE TO SELF – GROW UP!
(more & more, yet here, oh hero Byro? Chained clown, idiot/savante & illiterary genius of the age that is ours and never was, for this brief moment and always, that thou art made out to actually be...?)
Teacher – I love you!
Wha’? Back OFF! Mojo's mud.
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that it is not dad that is obligated to warn him that the way he takes in life, if it is to be a meaningful journey, is treacherous. Comes a time too in a man’s life to realize the boss may very well NOT have the epiphany holder’s best interest at heart.
Dad is not obligated to tell you all the fine lines you must cross and the ones you had better not cross until your damned well ready to fight. When being a hero to most and completely undesirable to the few that have the power to flick you off their high-powered noses in an augen blik whim, means that you cannot continue to bend like a young tree acquiescing whither the four winds do blow, no. Niether dad nor mom is obligated to tell you, you may not be well liked AT ALL when you open your mouth and out come tumbling, intensity of purpose, focussed precision, and building blocks of new creation in the pragmatic prose of life and in the hell-bent romantic poetry of existance, flowing, shape-shifting, symmetry & dissymmetry, pure and pure filth, annoying hypocrisy, annoying righteousness. That you may not be well liked when you lift your right arm high to lead the bloody charge and effortlessly wield the sword of your clan circuitously above your head then point its point straight ahead, with wide-mouthed shouts of sure victory. You wield it comfortably as if it were the extension of your right arm, your right side, your right heart, in fact. People may not like you at all when they find they’re suddenly face to face with he that holds the sword, you, and that by your hand they will vanish, flayed mercilessly through and through tissue and spine alike until decimated. Yes, DES – CI – MAT – ED is what I said.
Dad is not even obligated to tell you, dear Bryo about the enemies that exist and the ones that appear to exist during all the inappropriate times you’d care to manage in any particular moment.
Dad’s obligation is actually his choice only really, to yea or nay as he sees fit. And, if yea then it is to pray, the Lord your soul to keep, while you alone face and fight the enemies that may be related but are surely different, if by time’s partition only, from the enemies that his dad was not obligated to tell him about since effectiveness against enemies is best borne out, as all quest custodians understand, in a journey of self-discovery, in the process of finding them out for oneself in one’s life - alone, in studying them - alone, in knowing them when facing them - alone, in anticipating them – alone, and in the noonday showdown sun. Descimating done, what else better to do with an enemy but write for them a love poem as the good Mr Katrovas has so succinctly writ for his below:
LOVE POEM FOR AN ENEMY
I, as sinned against as sinning,
take small pleasure from the winning
of our decades-long guerrilla war.
For from my job Ive wanted more
than victory over one whod tried
to punish me before he died,
and now, neither of us dead,
we haunt these halls in constant dread
of drifting past the others life
while long-term memory is rife
with slights that sting like paper cuts.
Weve occupied our separate ruts
yet simmered in a single rage.
Weve grown absurd in middle age
together, and should seek wisdom now
together, by ending this row.
I therefore decommission you
as constant flagship of my rue.
Below the threshold of my hate
you now my good regard may rate.
For I have let my anger pass.
But, while youre down there, kiss my ass.
Richard Katrovas
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that to nurture and keep alive for yet one more hour of this beautiful day that is ours for now, the good things in his life, the peace-bringing things, the beautiful things too - end up being the things that he has to fight hardest against things for, larges forces, others’ and his own many, many, many, many vices. And what a fight he must put up too, so subtle, so smooth, so exacting, that the outcome is decimation of the spoiler forces, the spoiler life-leeches that attach and suck the living chance right out of you, man, “thereunto” in legalese, let’s say – just for fun, spoiling you.
As time flies by, blights become harder to scrub out. Blunders become harder to recover from. On the other hand what’s a blunder but a recovery in the making? For if in the blunder one can not recover, your call to arms is defeat before you risk a blow even. So I say blunder on byro!!! Blunder on, ‘til you learn the art and science of it. The art and science of it and learn enough of it. That is, enough of what it takes as you observe and absorb every day, my dear Byro, to ever soooo subtly initiate then egg on til "completion" the ever soooo subtly anticipated blunder of a clolleague forward slash enemy - you know what I'm talkin' of yes?.
And, I struggle continually to find and actually read instead of skim an ever more appropriate stack o' books layin' around to ground the soundness of my latest philos on.
When the cockroach roller derby begins, it’s a pretty good idea to have your Sunday-best, big squashing shoes already, mate. Go for the overtly jealous-looking ones first and y'all should be alright.
Teacher – I love you!
Wha’? Back OFF! Mojo's mud.
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that it is not dad that is obligated to warn him that the way he takes in life, if it is to be a meaningful journey, is treacherous. Comes a time too in a man’s life to realize the boss may very well NOT have the epiphany holder’s best interest at heart.
Dad is not obligated to tell you all the fine lines you must cross and the ones you had better not cross until your damned well ready to fight. When being a hero to most and completely undesirable to the few that have the power to flick you off their high-powered noses in an augen blik whim, means that you cannot continue to bend like a young tree acquiescing whither the four winds do blow, no. Niether dad nor mom is obligated to tell you, you may not be well liked AT ALL when you open your mouth and out come tumbling, intensity of purpose, focussed precision, and building blocks of new creation in the pragmatic prose of life and in the hell-bent romantic poetry of existance, flowing, shape-shifting, symmetry & dissymmetry, pure and pure filth, annoying hypocrisy, annoying righteousness. That you may not be well liked when you lift your right arm high to lead the bloody charge and effortlessly wield the sword of your clan circuitously above your head then point its point straight ahead, with wide-mouthed shouts of sure victory. You wield it comfortably as if it were the extension of your right arm, your right side, your right heart, in fact. People may not like you at all when they find they’re suddenly face to face with he that holds the sword, you, and that by your hand they will vanish, flayed mercilessly through and through tissue and spine alike until decimated. Yes, DES – CI – MAT – ED is what I said.
Dad is not even obligated to tell you, dear Bryo about the enemies that exist and the ones that appear to exist during all the inappropriate times you’d care to manage in any particular moment.
Dad’s obligation is actually his choice only really, to yea or nay as he sees fit. And, if yea then it is to pray, the Lord your soul to keep, while you alone face and fight the enemies that may be related but are surely different, if by time’s partition only, from the enemies that his dad was not obligated to tell him about since effectiveness against enemies is best borne out, as all quest custodians understand, in a journey of self-discovery, in the process of finding them out for oneself in one’s life - alone, in studying them - alone, in knowing them when facing them - alone, in anticipating them – alone, and in the noonday showdown sun. Descimating done, what else better to do with an enemy but write for them a love poem as the good Mr Katrovas has so succinctly writ for his below:
LOVE POEM FOR AN ENEMY
I, as sinned against as sinning,
take small pleasure from the winning
of our decades-long guerrilla war.
For from my job Ive wanted more
than victory over one whod tried
to punish me before he died,
and now, neither of us dead,
we haunt these halls in constant dread
of drifting past the others life
while long-term memory is rife
with slights that sting like paper cuts.
Weve occupied our separate ruts
yet simmered in a single rage.
Weve grown absurd in middle age
together, and should seek wisdom now
together, by ending this row.
I therefore decommission you
as constant flagship of my rue.
Below the threshold of my hate
you now my good regard may rate.
For I have let my anger pass.
But, while youre down there, kiss my ass.
Richard Katrovas
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that to nurture and keep alive for yet one more hour of this beautiful day that is ours for now, the good things in his life, the peace-bringing things, the beautiful things too - end up being the things that he has to fight hardest against things for, larges forces, others’ and his own many, many, many, many vices. And what a fight he must put up too, so subtle, so smooth, so exacting, that the outcome is decimation of the spoiler forces, the spoiler life-leeches that attach and suck the living chance right out of you, man, “thereunto” in legalese, let’s say – just for fun, spoiling you.
As time flies by, blights become harder to scrub out. Blunders become harder to recover from. On the other hand what’s a blunder but a recovery in the making? For if in the blunder one can not recover, your call to arms is defeat before you risk a blow even. So I say blunder on byro!!! Blunder on, ‘til you learn the art and science of it. The art and science of it and learn enough of it. That is, enough of what it takes as you observe and absorb every day, my dear Byro, to ever soooo subtly initiate then egg on til "completion" the ever soooo subtly anticipated blunder of a clolleague forward slash enemy - you know what I'm talkin' of yes?.
And, I struggle continually to find and actually read instead of skim an ever more appropriate stack o' books layin' around to ground the soundness of my latest philos on.
When the cockroach roller derby begins, it’s a pretty good idea to have your Sunday-best, big squashing shoes already, mate. Go for the overtly jealous-looking ones first and y'all should be alright.
