In other climes someone posted this image with the caption "All would be story tellers should take a lesson from nature. Don't let anything stop you from finishing your story...BREAK THROUGH.":
Spoiler: Spoiler just to save space
Which inspired some silliness from me to the tune of:
There was a tree; there was a rock.
There was a man in a gingham frock.
The man did stroll to yonder tree,
and with earnest voice and bended knee,
proclaimed his love, beneath these boughs
for lovely frocks and kitchen towels.
Then thither strolled another man,
this one dressed in kilt, tartán.
He was bewitched and glamour-struck.
Next to the man, himself did tuck.
He took his hand, and this he said:
"For frocks and towels, we shall be wed."
The tree looked down, as did the rock
at these two gents of kilt and frock.
And finding them both hale and whole,
did bless them each, and each their soul.
An odd arrangement they may be,
But so's a rock who loves a tree.
To which the original poster responded:
Quite a twist and different spin, for was not the way I did intend.
For I saw these two fighting for space, each one trying to the other erase.
For life and distractions for the writer does deal, and the tendency to give up often appeals.
So one battles the other, at peace they never be, yet the story demands it's time and will not be stop until it is free.
To which I replied:
Then you and I, each in our way,
have come to show and come to say
the spark that burns within one's chest
must be fanned, not laid to rest.
It must be given voice and love.
T'was what I saw in the post above.
A mortal duel, a lover's embrace,
It is for us to set the the pace,
the tone, the spin, the gentle lean,
that brings forth the tale from hearts unseen.
Giving rise to that connection
of parted souls, lost in introspection.
So I say to thee, O forum friend,
and just in case I did offend,
On different paths we surely walk,
(Mine bedecked with kilt and frock)
But the goal of you and the goal of me
is to reconcile that rock and tree.
... because the number of fucks to be given = zero
Where I live, in my culture, I am entitled to the quaintly polite title of licenciado (Lcdo.) because of my education and my certification with the federal court. I would never use it. I can't imagine being so crass and full of myself as to demand it.
I get an email a little bit ago from some waste-of-space who can't be bothered to read rules or warnings, who signs his final email to me: Dickhole McNutsack*, MBA.
Where shall I leave the tithings, my liege. *bows extravagantly*
Give me a fucking break.
*Names changed to protect privacy.
Yesterday was my B-Day. 48 years on this spinning rock. It was a quiet day. I worked most of the morning and then gave myself permission to do not a damned thing but veg with some old DVDs. Lots of people wished me well on Facebook and that's always really nice. One person did something that knocked my feet out from under me. He sent me a photo, circa 1990. It's the most nondescript photo you could ever imagine, not even very good resolution, but it shook me. It's from when I lived in Berlin, something I talk about often here in the forum because it was my Halcyon Days of Youth. I didn't just visit; I lived there for several years. The nature of the job I did while living there made being a shutterbug something that many of us subconsciously shied away from, and cellphones where still science fiction in those days, let alone ones with cameras, so I have barely any photographic evidence of my time in Berlin.
Seeing that image was like an archeological find. Until yesterday I didn't know it even existed. It's just me walking on a street. My pals and I would go to the place in the photo to turn Deutschemarks into dollars or widdershins likewise depending on what the exchange rate was, trading for whatever was more favorable. The photo opened a file drawer in my mind that had been rusted shut for decades, one filled with memories of finding little hole-in-the wall pubs with my buddies, ones where GIs didn't go (we hated the "typical haunts") and meeting the people who went to those neighborhood bars, making friends with people our own age, and listening to stories from older Germans about the war and the things they saw, always amazed at how well the older folks spoke English, and how eager they were to share with you.
It's funny how a casual gift can seem like nothing yet mean so much.
About a week ago I had to register in the SAM system for government contractors. Up to now I've been just a freelance independent contractor regularly contracted by the USDOJ in PR, and I liked that status. I was just me, an entity apart and separate from this increasingly insane paradigm that is my government. Registering and answering all the myriad questions (page after page after page) felt like taking off my clothing, piece by piece, until I was floating naked in the cold, the history of the years I've lived marked upon a body that no longer has the carefree beauty of youth. All up for inspection, for review.
Muscle tone: acceptable.
Body fat: increasing.
Skin tone: decreasing.
Height: lower than average.
Genitals: respectable but no need to call Guinness.
The same government that many years ago told me it wasn't interested in my services simply because of the gender of my prefered bedmates.
Annerving, to say the least.
We made space for
And I will not pretend otherwise just to appease your modern delicacy
Separate names with a comma.