mt2d2.net

Stop American Censorship

mt2 — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 05:11:12 +0000

https://www.google.com/landing/takeaction/

The Tonight

mt2 — Sun, 22 May 2011 08:06:10 +0000

Tonight seemed nice. I liked the idea of tonight. A brief visit to an old favorite. Smoke twirling up into nothingness. A nice coffee, expertly brewed. Friends not seen in a while, longer hair than usual, before. The sitting. The talking. The watching the smoke twirl up top. That point of light, held in the hands like nothing else, and when removed, still held. The hot breeze. The warm breeze.

A nice film. A funny film. A hope and a chance that tonight might be the night you’re finally able to to forgot it. The happy half an hour when you do. The spilled popcorn when you don’t. The dirty fingers touching the littered ground for that dropped cellphone. The revulsion. The funny film. You didn’t stand a chance.

The terribleness of an unused tissue box. It’s against the rules.

Die Füße im Feuer

mt2 — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 07:55:52 +0000

ikoniWild zuckt der Blitz. In fahlem Lichte steht ein Turm.
Der Donner rollt. Ein Reiter kämpft mit seinem Roß,
Springt ab und pocht ans Tor und lärmt. Sein Mantel saust
Im Wind. Er hält den scheuen Fuchs am Zügel fest.
Ein schmales Gitterfenster schimmert goldenhell
Und knarrend öffnet jetzt das Tor ein Edelmann …
“Ich bin ein Knecht des Königs, als Kurier geschickt
Nach Nîmes. Herbergt mich! Ihr kennt des Königs Rock!”
Es stürmt. Mein Gast bist du. Dein Kleid, was kümmert’s mich?
Tritt ein und wärme dich! Ich sorge für dein Tier!”
Der Reiter tritt in einen dunklen Ahnensaal,
Von eines weiten Herdes Feuer schwach erhellt,
Und je nach seines Flackerns launenhaftem Licht
Droht hier ein Hugenott im Harnisch, dort ein Weib,
Ein stolzes Edelweib aus braunem Ahnenbild…
Der Reiter wirft sich in den Sessel vor dem Herd
Und starrt in den lebend’gen Brand. Er brütet, gafft…
Leis sträubt sich ihm das Haar. Er kennt den Herd, den Saal…
Die Flamme zischt. Zwei Füße zucken in der Glut.

Den Abendtisch bestellt die greise Schaffnerin
Mit Linnen blendend weiß. Das Edelmägdlein hilft.
Ein Knabe trug den Krug mit Wein. Der Kinder Blick
Hangt schreckensstarr am Gast und hangt am Herd entsetzt…
Die Flamme zischt. Zwei Füße zucken in der Glut.
“Verdammt! Dasselbe Wappen! Dieser selbe Saal!
Drei Jahre sind’s…Auf einer Hugenottenjagd…
Ein fein, halsstarrig Weib…’Wo steckt der Junker? Sprich!’
Sie schweigt. ‘Bekenn!’ Sie schweigt. ‘Gib ihn heraus!’ Sie schweigt.

Ich werde wild. Der Stolz! Ich zerre das Geschöpf…
Die nackten Füße pack ich ihr und strecke sie
Tief mitten in die Glut…”Gib ihn heraus!”…Sie schweigt…
Sie windet sich…Sahst du das Wappen nicht am Tor?
Wer hieß dich hier zu Gaste gehen, dummer Narr?
Hat er nur einen Tropfen Bluts, erwürgt er dich.”—
Eintritt der Edelmann. “Du träumst! Zu Tische, Gast…”

Da sitzen sie. Die drei in ihrer schwarzen Tracht
Und er. Doch keins der Kinder spricht das Tischgebet.
Ihn starren sie mit aufgerißnen Augen an –
Den Becher füllt und übergießt er, stürzt den Trunk,
Springt auf: “Herr, gebet jetzt mir meine Lagerstatt!
Müd bin ich wie ein Hund!” Ein Diener leuchtet ihm,
Doch auf der Schwelle wirft er einen Blick zurück
Und sieht den Knaben flüstern in des Vaters Ohr…
Dem Diener folgt er taumelnd in das Turmgemach.
Fest riegelt er die Tür. Er prüft Pistol und Schwert.
Gell pfeift der Sturm. Die Diele bebt. Die Decke stöhnt.
Die Treppe kracht…Dröhnt hier ein Tritt? Schleicht dort ein Schritt?

Ihn täuscht das Ohr. Vorüberwandelt Mitternacht.
Auf seinen Lidern lastet Blei, und schlummernd sinkt
Er auf das Lager. Draußen plätschert Regenflut.
Er träumt. “Gesteh!” Sie schweigt. “Gib ihn heraus!” Sie schweigt.

Er zerrt das Weib. Zwei Füße zucken in der Glut.
Aufsprüht und zischt ein Feuermeer, das ihn verschlingt…
“Erwach! Du solltest längst von hinnen sein! Es tagt!”
Durch die Tapetentür in das Gemach gelangt,
Vor seinem Lager steht des Schlosses Herr—ergraut,
Dem gestern dunkelbraun sich noch gekraust das Haar.

Sie reiten durch den Wald. Kein Lüftchen regt sich heut.
Zersplittert liegen Ästetrümmer quer im Pfad.
Die frühsten Vöglein zwitschern, halb im Traume noch.
Friedsel’ge Wolken schimmern durch die klare Luft,
Als kehrten Engel heim von einer nächt’gen Wacht.
Die dunklen Schollen atmen kräft’gen Erdgeruch.
Die Ebne öffnet sich. Im Felde geht ein Pflug.
Der Reiter lauert aus den Augenwinkeln: “Herr,
Ihr seid ein kluger Mann und voll Besonnenheit
Und wißt, daß ich dem größten König eigen bin.
Lebt wohl! Auf Nimmerwiedersehn!” Der andre spricht:
“Du sagst’s! Dem größten König eigen! Heute ward
Sein Dienst mir schwer…Gemordet hast Du teuflisch mir
Mein Weib! Und lebst…Mein ist die Rache, redet Gott.”

C. F. Meyer

Lost Control

mt2 — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 08:03:59 +0000

I so desperately wish to experience, or to have the time back—to go back to a kind of time and place from my childhood where I was happy. These moments aren’t truly restricted to my childhood, but another part of the draw is that there wasn’t any negative shit attached to them, and in that way things were less complex. Complexity on its own isn’t a bad thing, in fact, I’m finding more that the busier I am the happier I seem to be. Even the added stress of too much work turns out to push me to the point where that work simply gets done. And even then sometimes when that work doesn’t get done, it’s not an insurmountable shame to explain why it hadn’t been, get it done, and move on with life. The fact that these moments still happen is worth something, too. I know that they can still happen, that they do happen, that they will happen again. Lately, they’ve just been mixed with the other sort.

It’s the other sort I can’t stand. It’s the other sort that causes me such an insurmountable anxiety. The kind that makes me rather in bed for hours, willing myself to stay unconscious for that much longer. Unfortunately it’s also the kind that makes my chest literally hurt and my fingers shake. Men’s normal diversions work to a point. As I’ve mentioned, working helps a lot. The drink, no matter how strong, doesn’t seem to last long enough, though, and so is it also with any drugs proscribed. I’m not terribly religious, but strangely appeals to God seem to help me fall asleep. Warm showers don’t work anymore. I’ve lost important coping mechanisms. I’ll try a bike ride soon.

What was most impactful, though, and it’s happened but just in the past few minutes was finding an email. I don’t have a printer with me, but I full intend on printing it as soon as possible, to keep keep it as close as possible to me at all times. I only hope what was in is still true. Someday the children will have peace. I swear I’ll help them find it.

Heimkehr eines verlassenen Jungen

mt2 — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 09:32:28 +0000

Er wachte um halb sechs Uhr auf. Er duschte sich und bereitete sich für den Tag vor. Er rasierte sich mit mehr Nachdruck als nötig. Er wollte gut aussehen, als ob es Leute gäbe, die er hätte beeindrucken wollen. Zum Frühstück trank er nur eine Tasse Kaffee. Später würde er darüber witzeln, dass er schon vorher einen Schluck Luft gegessen hatte und nicht hungrig war. Er ließ seine Kaffeepresse da und schloss die Tür seines Hauses ab. Er rannte zum Taxi, das auf ihn wartete.

Im Flugzeug benutzte er sein iPhone, sodass Leute ihn nicht stören würden. Er hustete als die anderen an ihm vorbeigingen, um den Mittelsitz frei zu halten. Er verachtete die anderen Passagiere. Er blickte finster. Er wollte mit niemandem sprechen, denn es verschlechterte den Stress seiner Situation. Er bedauerte, dass man sich bei manchen Fluglinien nur auf seinen vorbestimmen Platz setzen darf, dass manche Leute solche Linien wählen würden, dass manche Kinder mitbrachten, dass er diese drei Stunden—

“Ist dieser Platz noch frei?” Eine fette, geschmückte Hand stieß ihn an.

Am Ende musste er zwischen dieser Frau und zwei Teenagern sitzen. Ein Baby, das unaufhörlich popelte, saß vor ihm. Es starrte ihn an—sein kleiner Kopf war unnatürlich verbogen. Seine Mutter beschäftigte sich mit ihren Zeitschriften. Das Baby bohrte in der Nase und starrte den Mann an. Er nahm sein Macbook heraus, um damit beschäftigt auszusehen. Er öffnete das E-Mail Programm. Die Teenager sprachen.

“Hast du diesen Witz je gehört? Sag mir mal was Hitlers Telefonnummer war!”

Unser Mann versuchte sich zu konzentrieren. Der andere sagte nichts.

“NEIN! NEIN! NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!”

“Kann ich Ihnen etwas zum Trinken anbieten? Möchten Sie was zu trinken?”

“Sei so lieb und bestell mir doch ein Coca-Cola, mein Knabe” flüsterte ihm die dicke Hand rechts zu.

Er versuchte nochmals sich zu konzentrieren. Er hätte lieber ganz einfach mit diesem Flugzeug, mit dem Leben von irgendjemandem verschmelzen wollen, als im Flugzeug bei diesen Leuten in Tränen zu zerfließen. Er wurde überwältigt von der Vergangenheit, davon, was ihm passiert war, von der Einladung seiner Familie, die ihn siebzehn Jahre vorher im Stich gelassen hatte. Wenn er doch nur diese Einladung ignoriert hätte! Solche beklemmenden Gefühle, dass er diesen finsteren Gedanken nochmals erlag, ärgerte ihn. Dass er ihre Coca-Cola noch nicht bestellt hatte, ärgerte sie.

Sie landeten. Die Passagiere standen alle auf, außer unserem Mann, der nicht verstand, wieso alle aufstehen, ohne auf die Tür zugehen zu können. Einer von den zwei Teenagern rülpste. Die ungeduldige Frau war ihm auf den Fersen. Das Baby begaffte ihn. Die Tür wurde geöffnet. Sie stiegen aus. Er ging den Sicherheitskorridor entlang. Er kam zu einer Wartezone. Da war seine Familie.

Emendemus in melius

mt2 — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 05:41:30 +0000

Lassen wir die Sachen berichtigen, in der wir durch die Ignoranz gesündigt haben,
sodass wir nicht vom Tage des Todes überrascht werden,
sodass wir nach dem Orte des Bedauerns streben,
und seien wir nicht im Stande ihn zu finden

Hört! O Herr, erbarme Dich,
da wir gegen Dich gesündigt haben.
Hilf uns, O Gott unserer Errettung
Und für die Ehre Deines Namens, rette uns.

It’s Written, Delete

mt2 — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 08:52:42 +0000

Die, you miserable whore.

I’m not really sure what I want to say, but I know I’m actually a better person than that. I know, because I’ve decided that. It’s not something I learned or figured out with my time on street. I decided I’ll be the better person. I haven’t always been, but I am going to now.

Still, for some reason, I can’t go back and delete it. It’s not even that I’ve got a ton I would sacrifice between here and there, and even if there were, there’s no reason I couldn’t have it all out again. I think I really mean it. Maybe not quite literally do I mean, but it’s with feeling that’s truly. Don’t quite know if that negates my decision.

So between you and me, I’ll just leave that there. For posterity, for my sanity, for nothing else other than to voice this nagging feeling to be who I once was. Everyone deserves a couple relapses.

Footnote in Feynman’s Lecture on Physics

mt2 — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 18:03:22 +0000

“Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars — mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is “mere”. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination — stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one-million-year-old light. A vast pattern — of which I am a part… What is the pattern or the meaning or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little more about it. For far more marvelous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?

Deep Peace

mt2 — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 10:45:29 +0000

There’s an old celtic prayer that’s appropriate.

Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the quiet Earth to you.
Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you.
Deep peace of the son of peace to you.

It’s romantic to think of this being etched into stone in Old Irish, but according to my research, the poem is extracted from an English poem by Fiona Macleod, Scottish, “The Dominion of Dreams under a Dark Star”. Oh, were it actually Irish, I’d imagine it’d have the word “leat” in it. I miss Irish and Ireland. I think “oiche” is my favorite Irish word. Sleep well, friends.

Nathan and the Forgiving Life

mt2 — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 07:27:58 +0000

Nathan, at one of the outlying tables,
His feet tangled up in the disc jockey’s cables,
Surveyed the room, as unseen as a ghost,
While he mulled over what he might say for his toast.
Though the couple had asked him for this benediction,
It seemed at odds with parking him here by the kitchen.
That he’d shown up at all was still a surprise.
And not just to him; it was there in the eyes
Of the guests who’d seen a mirage and drew near
And then covered their shock with a “Nathan! You’re here!”
And then silence. They’d nothing to say beyond that.
A few of the braver souls lingered to chat.
They all knew. It was neither a secret nor mystery
That he and the couple had quite an odd history.
Their bonds were a tangle of friendship and sex.
Josh, his best pal once. And Patty, his ex.
For a while he could barely go out in the city
Without a being a punchline or object of pity.
‘Poor Nathan’ had virtually become his new name,
And so he showed up just to show he was game
Though his invite was late, a forgotten addendum.
For Nathan there could be no more clear referendum
That he need but endure through this evening and then
He would likely not see Josh and Patty again.
Josh’s sister was speaking. A princess in peach.
Nathan dug in his pocket to study his speech.
He’d poured over Bartlett’s for couplets to filch.
He’d stayed up until three, still came up with zilch.
Except for instructions he’d underscored twice.
Just two words in length, and those words were ‘be nice’.
Too often, he thought, our emotions betray us
And reason departs once we’re up on the dais.
He’d witnessed uncomfortable moments where others had lost their way quickly,
Where sisters and brothers had gotten too prickly
And peppered their babbling with stories of benders,
Or lesbian dabbling or spot-on impressions of mothers-in-law.
Which true, Nathan thought, always garnered guffaws
But the price seemed too high with the laugh seldom cloaking
Hostility masquerading as joking
No, he’d swallow his rage and he’d bank all his fire.
He knew that in his case the bar was set higher.
Folks were just waiting for him to erupt.
They’d be hungry for blood even though they had supped.
They’d want tears or some other unsightly reaction.
And Nathan would not give them that satisfaction.
Though Patty a harlot and Josh was a lout,
At least Nathan knew what he’d not talk about.
I won’t wish them divorce, that they wither and sicken
Or tonight that they choke on their salmon or chicken.
I won’t mention that time when the cottage lost power
In that storm on the Cape and they left for an hour
And they thought it was just the cleverest ruse
To pretend it took that long to switch out the fuse.
Or that time Josh advised me with so much insistence
That I should grant Patty a little more distance,
That the worst I could do was hamper and crowd her,
That if Patty felt stifled she’d just take a powder,
That a plant needs its space just as much as its water,
And I shouldn’t give Patty that ring that I’d bought her,
Which in retrospect only elicits a “Gosh,
I hardly deserved a friend like you, Josh.”
No I won’t spill those beans or make myself foolish
To satisfy appetites venal and ghoulish.
I will not be the blot on this hellish affair.
And with that, Nathan pushed out and rose from his chair.
And just by the tapping of knife against crystal,
All eyes turned his way, like he’d fired off a pistol.
“Ah hem, Joshua, Patricia, dear family and friends,
A few words, if you will, before everything ends.
You’ve promised to honor, to love and obey,
We’ve quaffed our champagne and been cleansed by sorbet,
All in endorsement of your hers-and-his-dom.
So now let me add my two cents’ worth of wisdom.
I was wracking my brain sitting here at this table
Until I remembered this suitable fable
That gets at a truth, though it may well distort us
So here with the tale of the scorpion and tortoise.
The scorpion was hamstrung, his tail all aquiver.
Just how would he manage to get ‘cross the river?
‘The water’s so deep,’ he observed with a sigh,
Which pricked at the ears of the tortoise nearby.
‘Well, why don’t you swim?’ asked the slow-moving fellow.
‘Unless you’re afraid. I mean, what are you, yellow?’
‘It isn’t a matter of fear or of whim,’
Said the scorpion. ‘But that I don’t know how to swim.’
‘Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be glib
When I said that I figured you were an amphib-
ian.’ ‘No offense taken,’ the scorpion replied.
‘But how ’bout you help me to reach the far side?
You swim like a dream and you have what I lack.
What say you take me across on your back?’
‘I’m really not sure that’s the best thing to do,’
Said the tortoise. ‘Now that I see that it’s you.
You’ve a less than ideal reputation preceding.
There’s talk of your victims all poisoned and bleeding.
You’re the scorpion. And, how can I say this but, well,
I just don’t feel safe with you riding my shell.’
The scorpion replied, ‘What would killing you prove?
We’d both drown. So tell me how would that behoove
Me to basically die at my very own hand,
When all I desire is to be on dry land?’
The tortoise considered the scorpion’s defense.
When he gave it some thought it made perfect sense.
The niggling voice in his mind he ignored
And he swam to the bank and called out, ‘Climb aboard.’
But just a few moments from when they set sail,
The scorpion lashed out with his venomous tail.
The tortoise too late understood that he’d blundered
When he felt his flesh stabbed and his carapace sundered.
As he fought for his life he said, ‘Tell me why
You have done this? For we now will surely both die.’
‘I don’t know!’ cried the scorpion. ‘You never should trust
A creature like me because poison I must.
I’d claim some remorse or at least some compunction
But I just can’t help it. My form is my function.
You thought I’d behave like my cousin the crab,
But unlike him, it is my nature to stab.’
The tortoise expired with one final quiver,
And then both of them sank, swallowed up by the river.
The tortoise was wrong to ignore all his doubts
Because in the end, friends, our natures will out.”
Nathan paused, cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink.
He needed these extra few seconds to think.
The room had gone frosty; the tension was growing.
Folks wondered precisely where Nathan was going.
The prospects of skirting fiasco seemed dim,
But what he said next surprised even him.
“So what can we learn from their watery ends?
Is there some lesson on how to be friends?
I think what it means is that central to living
A life that is good, is a life that’s forgiving.
We’re creatures of contact, regardless of whether
We kiss or we wound, still, we must come together.
Though it may spell destruction, we still ask for more
Since it beats staying dry but so lonely on shore.
So we make ourselves open while knowing full well
It’s essentially saying, ‘Please, come pierce my shell.’”
Silence doesn’t paint the depth of quiet in that room.
There was no clinking stemware toasting to the bride or groom.
You could’ve heard a petal as it landed on the floor.
And in that stillness Nathan turned and walked right out the door.