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Slide_we_down
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Name: Benji
Country: Canada
Gender: Male
Interests: French horn playing, basso guitar, dancing in my room (as long as nobodies watching), cactuses, late night philosophy matches, snowgazing, and little lights in dark places.
Expertise: Stating the obvious, certified professional thought thinkerer, national flags, noodle preparation, defiant introvertedness, the occasional batch of defiant extrovertedness, sunset enthusiast, relating my personal life to alternative rock lyrics, et cetera
Occupation: Student
Industry: Nonprofit
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
1/30/2003
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| We've been brought out, exposed, the mission has been compromised. For the safety of my coconspirators and I, I must change my identity. Those of you who must be contacted in order for the mission to succeed will be. Those of you who wish to be contacted, do not hesitate in telling me. And for those of you who must get on with their lives, God bless. Adieu, adieu, adieu. | | |
| For what it's worth, my opinion is that some of us are more like ink and some are more like paper, as far as our effects on others go. One (ink) judges, enchants, and enlightens from afar, the other (paper) listens, befriends, and enlightens from within. I couldn't put one above the other, but then again, who would expect me or anyone to do that? | | |
| Rindercella says she’s fooking lor buth and treauty but I think she’s trust jying to let gaid. | | |
| - - - It seems to be behaving now. Good for me! Though I didn't do anything it's still good FOR me. Yes. My latest REAL post is below. | | |
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The moon had thrown itself from the sky crying, “I am king of all the stars”. It had then proceeded in a possible lack of foresight (or not, it’s hard to tell) to impale itself on The Eiffel Tower. This was the future, or is to say, will be the future. It turned out that much of “modern” science wasn’t quite accurate and so did little to prepare for such events. As you can imagine, the moon being small enough to impale itself on The Eiffel tower left a few people scratching their heads. I mean, it made sense and all that the moon would choose this place to impale itself, The Eiffel Tower was the tallest building the world. Well, at least in North America, you can never be too sure what those Europeans are up to, and don’t even get me started about the orient (though that is kind of a dated term). Marco was there when it happened, he saw the whole thing. As I recall he was sitting in the shade of a deciduous tree of some type in Pennsylvania, that’s where the Eiffel tower is now, Pennsylvania. It was moved there after some big war or another. Nobody’s exactly sure which one, at some point people just stopped naming them or even really caring about them, they just all started seeming the same. That isn’t to say they didn’t still happen, they did- they were just another part of life. Saying you didn’t like them would be like saying you don’t like forest fires, it’s true but what can you do about it?
Marco had known something big would happen to him that day from the moment he awoke out of a night of black and white dreams. It was late spring then, not exactly summer but warm enough to go out and not be too uncomfortable. Marco was young but he lived alone (actually he lived in a big house inhabited by dozens of people but he had the smaller less comfortable of the two attics all to himself). It wasn’t difficult to find children stored away in the nooks and crannies of strangers and common dwellings. Few people minded, that was just the way it was. He had a half-empty box of Lucky Charms stored away in a makeshift cupboard. He was doing well not to eat them all right away, treating himself to the airy cereal pieces and cardboardish marshmallows only on special occasions or when the urge was unbearable. Today’s occasion was Marco’s premonition of something spectacular happening. He poured himself a conservative but sizable bowl and ate it without milk. He had fallen asleep the night before in his white t-shirt and tattered blue jeans, he looked down at them and decided that they were still clean enough to wear. After looking in the cracked mirror of his humble dwelling for imperfections in his pitch hair and not quite so pitch teeth he left for whatever the day may bring him.
It was a Sunday and the sun was still in the process of rising. Marco decided this was a holiday from whatever it was he usually did to gain sustenance, so he went for a walk. In his walk he met up with his friend Cora. Cora was a stray mutt whom the children of Marco’s neighborhood positively adored. She was big and gray and had one eye that was light blue and another eye that the children all disagreed on whether it was black, brown, or orange. Marco thought it was brown.
“Hey girl, a brought you a present,” Marco was referring to the handful of Lucky Charms he had brought for the rat-like creature.
It was kind of silly for Marco to be giving his special treat away, he hadn’t even told any of his friends about his possession of the sugary cereal. He had wanted to, but he knew they would only fight over it and torment him for not giving them more. He figured that his little treasure would just be for him and Cora until he decided the time was right, or until it was gone. It was just as well, the dog needed the children’s generosity for sustenance. There was a general understanding of this reality as Cora devoured the cereal graciously, using her tongue as a utensil.
Marco walked with Cora all the way to the park where Marco was hoping to find a game of soccer to join. When he got there, however, the park was almost entirely barren. All the other children were either asleep, or working, or off scrounging for breakfast, or of not having to scrounge for breakfast. Since it was still early and it was his vacation, Marco decided it wasn’t a lost cause to wait around until some other children decided show up. Cora was investigating some small thing on the ground that was out of Marco’s view. Marco pondered for a moment the shadow that was dwarfing him at that moment. He gazed upon the tour, obstructing the sun’s dominance, penetrating the sky. The Eiffel Tower was located adjacent to the park and was an arc de triomphe of a conquest past, or so the story goes. Marco shivered for a moment, feeling the entire universe within his tiny little grasp. It was as if he had built the ominous tower himself as a superconductor for the cosmos and was being humbled by his craft. Marco broke free of this fantasy and threw himself back down into the green simplicity of the park.
Marco had lost sight of the mangy Cora and was feeling in need of some amusement, so he decided to go to The Parkside Library located across the street from the his current location. Marco was careful to look both ways before crossing the street, which made a right angle between the park, the library, and tower lot (the property wherein The Eiffel Tower was based).
The understaffed library was musty and bruised, it was a haven for the bored and the curious. Marco was both. He already had a card to check out books with, though his reading abilities where entirely nonexistent. Marco loved picture books, he loved the lines, he loved the colours, he loved the words underlining them like wrinkles under an old person’s eyes. In secret Marco was quite the little artist himself, though nobody new about it. On his way to the children’s section, (that was the best place for pictures, though history and natural sciences had some good ones as well) he stumbled (quite literally) upon a worn green chapter book lying innocently on the floor. It read :
Who has Seen the Wind
W.O. Mitchell
Marco didn’t know this of course, being illiterate, but he was interested in the book nonetheless. He carried it with him until he found Oh the Places You’ll Go by the great twentieth century author Dr. Seuss. He discarded the other book. This one was one of Marco’s favourites, he new it by heart from having the old woman who lived below him read it aloud. He could always tell different authors apart by the style of the illustrations. Marco appreciated how strange and hairy everyone looked in Dr. Seuss’ books. In Marco’s hand, Oh the Places You’ll Go shimmered brilliantly, despite it’s age; he walked up to the counter to check it out. Old Miss Kitsch the librarian smiled warmly at little Marco as he placed his book and library card up on the counter. Marco was one of the only people his age that appreciated having open libraries. Miss Kitsch remembered a time when there weren’t any, when she was a little girl.
“Ah, this one again. You read a lot of splendid literature for such a young man,” said Miss Kitsch as she was making a record of the book’s temporary departure. She was always saying things like that, splendid, literature.
“Thank-you,” Marco said dutifully without making eye contact. He took his book and library card and hurried out the door.
Marco hoped that Cora or some other children would be there when he got back but he would find neither. This time he didn’t look both ways as he was crossing the street, but it didn’t matter because there weren’t any cars insight anyway. He sat down under the shade of a broad old deciduous tree of some type and, in the park, opened his book. He gazed into the world of the pictures, a world so alien to his own. As his hands crossed over the words unintelligibly he began to shiver again. As he shivered in fear and in wonder he began to turn the pages of his book more rapidly, until finally he reached the back cover. There written in blue ink was the equation:
AH+JS
It was surrounded by a heart. Below that in crude pencil was the proclamation:
Steven is gay
Marco’s finger tips caressed the words as they always did, never understanding their meaning but always seeing in them some lonely shard of aesthetic virtuosity. His fingers traveled over one final message, described in purple crayon surrounded by purple celestial bodies:
I am king of all the stars
As he did this, those very words boomed from the sky and Marco was compelled to look up. There he saw a great whitish orb tumbling down through the atmosphere. Marco felt no fear this time, no wonder, no doubt perplexed his tiny juvenile mind. He didn’t question the orb because he was the orb, and the orb was him, and he was everything, and the orb was everything , and so forth. It was not a crash that impaled the moon, it was more of a plop. The moon was skewered easily, as it was made of cheese and not rock like scientist of an age gone by had thought. He stared blankly up at the bulbous giant, shishkabobbed on a tower from afar. He had been the closest person to the crash, the only honest opinion, and he would never be asked. He walked home with his book in hand, hoping that he would stumble upon some Coa Coa Puffs on the way home. | | |
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