Posts Tagged ‘ Shorts ’

An Ode to Soren

The statue sat in thinking pose
long fingers stretched up past his nose
pondering the worlds every woe
as burning sun gave to blustery snow
that affected not his train of thought
no matter how hard the wind did blow.

Across the twisting graveled path
sat a boy, engrossed in thoughtful task
of what the marbled form did spend
so much time lost in mental math
considering or seriously solving
though stuck on the pedestal in the grass.

Was he remembering some love long lost?
Or how creation came with fallen cost?
Or had death covered his closest friend
with blackened breath like creeping moss?
Did he think of the burdened poor
who died from hunger by the score?
Or was he sending prayers to heavens gates
past the fabled golden shores?

But the statue (who is you, Soren, my good man!)
sat untouched by natures chilling fan
to only challenge the mind of passer-bys,
who, on seeing his brow-furled guise
would stop to think and, thinking, stand
with a thousand thoughts passing ‘neath their eyes
engaged with sorting truth from lies.

For when one man thinks,
others join, minds a’brew;
and thinking men, my friend,
is what will always please you.


On Poetry

On Poetry,
An Introduction to Eliza’s Fancy

Dearest Reader,

There was once a time in history when poetry filled so many vast and endless pages of books that one couldn’t step into a family library without the very ink singing in meter and stomping in beat. But those days have long faded, and the rhythm of the song-stories is no longer easy to distinguish, as our ears have grown accustomed to the crashing marches and brass pitches of the ever forward-moving novel. The average book talks, whispers, and occasionally gives a nearly unidentifiable yelp that startles you into confusion, but it rarely flutters its voice in sweet-spun melody. Even modern poetry has exchanged form for freedom, and thus lost that which made it poetry in the first place while still grasping pointlessly on to the word whose meaning it has rejected. Yet because both the novel and the modern poem can be done with such outstanding talent and gripping emotion, they have often brought with them a deriding sneer towards the very literature that paved the way for their rise. For the very first stories that shook the artistic world were poems, set to song, and accompanied with a tapping foot. And when one loses the ability to read music, it seems like a droll mess instead of the framework for a symphony.

It has been to many peoples surprise when I explain that the book herein is written with some semblance of meter, and that I try and use rhythm as a musician would use it. There are verses, choruses, bridges, introductions, codas, and every other structural support found in music both on the radio and in the concert hall. And while I make no assurance that such things are written particularly well or sung with a particularly smooth tone, they are nonetheless composed with a particularly meticulous plan: to make the poetry as natural as possible to a completely untrained reader.

It is my hope, and here is where all criticism of my form should rest, that the beat will flow as naturally as speech while still imparting that sense of structure. To those of you who have not touched poetry since you were forced to stand in class and recite a Shakespearean speech in a manner that would have saddened even Shakespeare, do not try and read this with any forced timing or dramatic bravado (ah, how the ill-trained have ruined the greatest of the Bard’s monologues with the dreary pseudo-beat taught in schools). Such an attempt will only make you lose your interest, as well as your place in the story. Instead, read it as you would a speech: pause where the sentences demand a pause, stress where the words want the stress, and inflect as the emotion imposes inflection.

Though it may take some small amount of practice, know that learning to read as you sing will open up an entirely new world itself filled with a thousand worlds. The greatest fictional works in history have all mixed the quick wit and sharp tongue of a storyteller with the practiced ability to use word-harmonies as they would a piano, striking melodic notes with rhyme and creating thick, heart-rending chords with structure. While I am the least of these, I hope my own simplicity of form will aid in training your mind to work with your ear in singing songs to your soul.


P.S. The only time you may need to speak unnaturally is in the rare cases that -ed endings must be pronounced to maintain the beat. I avoid this as often as I can, but on occasion it becomes a necessary sacrifice to the tidal movement of the song. These will be written with a dash, as in ‘blame-ed’, and are to be pronounced with the -ed as an extra syllable (blame/id).

The Faery’s Last Song

I woke to her last song fluttering in my ear, through the cracks in my window-sill that kept no warm air in. She sung in mourning of her own death, and it contained all she ever was. It floated on that crisp wind that cuts through sheets and souls alike, and rested on my pillow, by my head, and it closed its eyes along with me.

It called to me, through my dreams, or better yet, despite my dreams, and I could not resist it. It was a story of death, and of emptiness, yet there was no struggle in it. There was loneliness, yes; but acceptance as well, and the song floated as a feather, and would not be weighed down by all that pulled at its barbs.

So I rose and went to her. Outside, into the forest, down along the streambed now frozen to a trickle, to a thicket of rosebushes at the trunk of a near-dead oak, blackening and snarled and twisted about itself. She lay among the roots, unmoving limbs and unblowing hair, though the cold wind blew hard from the North. Only her pale pink lips shimmered with life, and still her song went, so I listened.

It was a song of yesteryears, of time long spent in places worth spending it, of great heroes and towering cowards, of myth and of reality. They used to listen to her songs, dance to her songs, sing them to their children; and she would breathe in their hearing, and it fed her, sustained her. Like a strong liqueur she would feel it in her throat, in her blood, and from its boiling strength new songs would flow.

Their children would come to the towering tree with its twisted roots and hold hands, running in circles about her, shouting the stories she had told, and their words would drift up into the leaves, and she would draw them deep into her and need no more. From the children she drew such life, and from her they drew knowledge, and all was good.

Then men came with quill and ink and hardened hearts, and though they heard the stories, they listened not, but wrote them down on rough skins and strips of dried grass. They would hear the stories and frown to those who listened, and shush the children who sang, and they would write all they heard and saw, but would with sad eyes go their way.

Soon, they who used to listen too only heard, and though they would stand about her trunk as she sang her new songs, they would not tell them to their children, but would with sad eyes go their way.

Their children began to come and dance about the tree, but they did not sing, for they knew not the words, but would with sad eyes go their way.

So the tree withered, and her skin grew old and her leaves would crumble and fall earlier every year, and those who saw the tree saw not her underneath it, and they would with sad eyes go their way.

Thus her song ended, and I bent down to pick up her frail body, but I rose with only a flower as pink as her lips, and a gust of wind shaking me to my bones.

I lay down to bed, and rested the flower beside me, and slept. In my dream, I heard her voice, and she told me fragments of stories told in ancient times, in ancient voices, in ancient ways, but like the fragrance from the flower they drifted with the wind, and I could not see, only feel them. And though I still slept, I was awakened by all she said, and my spirit stirred and chased and grasped and slipped and gathered, and I collected the parts, and like a puzzle I pieced them together, though I knew not how they should look.

So, dear Muse, let loose your songs in my dreams. Tell tales of high import, though these days they are ignored. May all that you once were be revived, and I will listen and I will sing at the roots of your tree and I will leave with happy eyes.

If you enjoy this, please take a moment to read

The Boy Who Drew In The Mud and other parables

The Boy Who Drew in the Mud

There once was a boy who drew in the mud. Now, this was quite an ordinary boy, and his drawings were of nothing in particular, and of no significant artistry. Nonetheless, the boy would, as often as he could escape from the various chores and homework everyone seemed to enjoy giving him, spend hours with a stick, or maybe just his fingers, or occasionally a carrot or bit of celery he had smuggled into his pocket to avoid eating, drawing and drawing in the big patch of mud on the edge of his backyard, near the garden his neighbor had.

Now, this neighbor was quite an ordinary neighbor, and like all quite ordinary neighbors, was particularly nosy in matters he had no business being nosy in, and not nearly nosy enough in matters he well should have been nosy about. So this neighbor would watch the young boy drawing in the mud all afternoon long as the sky was starting to darken and the clouds were starting to build and blacken like a cloud of ash in a small room, and he would yell from his porch where he sat, “Boy! Why do you draw in the mud? It will just be washed away when the rain comes in, and you will be left with nothing!” But the boy would just look at him with those big brown child-eyes, give a half-hearted shrug, and return to his scribbling. And when the rain came, the boy would sit and watch as it washed away, and the neighbor would shout “Boy! What did I tell you! Now you must start from the beginning!” But the boy would just look at him with those big brown child-eyes, and give a big grin, and return to his watching.

For as long as the neighbor could remember, this would happen every time it would rain. Yet never did the boy tire of the game; he would draw, and watch as it would wash away. And the neighbor thought, “This boy must be mad! There is no reason why he should so enjoy all his work and all his effort wasting away into the ground. Why, it is quite unnatural! Next time, I will go right up to the boy and drag him away from his mud, and I will explain to him exactly how these things should be done! With a pencil and clean sheet of paper, or maybe a scrap of charcoal from my fireplace! Yes, I will teach him how to draw properly, on proper things!”

So the next time he walked out on his porch and saw the boy drawing in the mud, he marched his way to where the boy stood, puffed out his chest, and looked straight down his nose, saying “Boy! You come with me right now! This is quite unnatural. Let us go get a pencil and a clean sheet of paper, or maybe a scrap of charcoal from my fireplace, and I will teach you how to draw properly, on proper things!” But the boy just looked at him with those big brown child-eyes, and shook his head. The neighbor, being, like all ordinary neighbors, quite stubborn, stomped his little dress shoe on the grass and said, “You must be mad! There is no reason for you to enjoy all your work and effort wasting away into the ground!” But the boy just looked at him with those big brown child-eyes, and gave a big smile, and said, “Wait one moment.”

The boy pointed down to the patch of mud where had been busy drawing an immense battle, with giants on one side with massive raised clubs, and knights on stick-horses with big pointed lances guarding little stick-princesses wearing pointy stick-hats. And a dragon with a long, curly neck was busy breathing fire on a bunch of little stick-peasants, while a bunch of stick-centaurs surrounded it from all sides, pointy bows and pointy arrows flying all about. As a big clap of thunder resounded about the yard, the neighbor said, “I am too late! This will be ruined, and you must start from the beginning!”

Then it began to rain.

The entire drawing seemed to stir to life as the water ran across it in sheets, and the trickles and streams of rain through the fluid mud breathed movement into all the figures. The knights were suddenly charging and the giants swinging their clubs down as the princesses swooned and fell to the floor. The dragons fire jetted about, and the peasants collapsed in terror, as the centaurs rode in circles, wildly shooting. Armies clashed and lovers met, and some men ran away like cowards, while others rode forth into death and fame. The scene swayed about, and, like a play, all the figures did their part. And the boy and the neighbor watched together, wordless, with big grins on their faces.


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The Fable of the Three Birds

The Fable of the Three Birds

On the edge of a forest lived three birds: a songbird, a crow, and a mockingbird. Every morning, the songbird woke and flew to the highest branch in her tree to sing to the forest a most beautiful song – the joy of her tiny heart bubbled and fizzled and burst out through her beak, and the song would float along the wind and into the sky . But the crow, a nasty and spiteful beast, would daily land on her branch, and with the smell of carrion on his breath, lambasted the little songbird with jeers and biting words. “Who do you sing to, little bird? The wind? The sky? They hear you not, and they enjoy it not! How your little tweets and hoots are wasted on deaf ears, and how you do make such a fool of yourself to the forest!” And the mockingbird, a mis-shapen and dark-minded beast, would daily land on her branch and sing his own mocking song, but it had not the beauty or heart of the songbirds, and it’s song would fall flat to the forest floor.

One day, a torrent raged upon the trees, and the branches were whipped to and fro, and the birds knew that it was only a matter of time before the tree they lived in was swept away. But the songbird worried not, and flew to the highest branch and sang, the wind crashing like waves on the tree, but her voice flying ever higher, and the rain couldn’t drown her melody out. The crow flew to her branch, and while the branch swang wildly, laughed a most hideous laugh, and said “Why sing such a beautiful song, poor wretch? Don’t you know this tree will be carried off, with us in it? This storm will end us, and no one will ever hear you sing again!” And the crow, with his chest puffed and his pride bursting, laughed and walked to the edge of the branch, where the wind picked him up and threw him off deep into the forest. And the mockingbird waddled his way to the songbird, and blasted his dissonant tune that fell even faster than the rain, stopping only to cackle at the songbird, until the wind picked him up and threw him after the crow. And as the storm grew stronger, so did the songbirds song, until she too was thrown into the forest.

The next morning, the three birds, with their wings broken and nests scattered about, sat on the forest floor, yet still the songbird began to sing her most beautiful tune, and it was lifted up into the freshly cleaned forest, and seemed to wash it again with her soulful cry. And the crow grew hot with fury, yelling “What makes you sing, damned fool! Your wing is broke and nest is shattered, and there is still no one to hear you!” And the mockingbird sang his most mocking song, shaking the leaves and boiling the puddles, and the screeches burrowed into the ground like worms.

But the songbird’s song was carried by the wind, and reached the ear of an elderly woman who walked the forest, and had often stopped to listen to the songbird. She knew the voice, and found the songbird with her broken wing and scattered nest, and scooped both up and brought them home. She mended the wing and rebuilt the nest in a light-fixture above her front door, and every morning the songbird would sing for the old woman, and every night the old woman would feed the songbird, and both pleased each other’s soul greatly.

Collected Conversations with Inanimate Objects

Here, for the first time ever, is the collected works in my ‘Converstations with the Various Inanimate Objects I Encounter at the Library‘, from the days when my mind had slowly numbed itself from reality by repetitive shelving of sub-par literature.

My First Conversation with the Eighth Book on Gay Sex I Shelved Today:

Me: Are you really necessary?
Book: Supply and demand, babe.
Me: No no, I get that part. It’s just… how many of you do there need to be?
Book: What do you mean?
Me: Well, there are only so many places a guy can go with another guy…
Book: Some people have to find the ideas first, you know.
Me: But -eight- of you?
Book: You’d be surprised how many men don’t know that you can put it in –
Me: Screw this, I’m going to shelve the comic books.

My First Conversation with the Black Magic Book that has a Red Stain on it:

Me: So, uh, wild night?
Book: Well, you see that red stain on me?
Me: Yeah.
Book: That used to be in a chicken.
Me: So… did the spell work.
Book: Are you serious?
Book: No. No, it didn’t.

My First Conversation with the Fourth Unique Janet Evanovich Book on the New Shelf:

Me: Let me guess. You’re about a man and a woman who meet under strange circumstances, dislike each other at first, but slowly develop a relationship that ends with a trying breakup, only for them to realize that they can’t live without eachother. And after overcoming almost abusrdly coincidental obstacles, they finally reunite in true love.
Book: Well, actually, I’m a cautionary tale on the whole ‘love at first sight’ myth. You see, you can fall in love with anyone if you so wish, but only certain people can actually coexist and lead a fruitful, realistic relationship that produces true joy. I try and dispell the lustful relationships most romance novels center on.
Me: Wait, really?
Book: Hah! Hell no. You nailed me the first try.
Me: Oh! Hah hah, that was a good one!
Book: You should have seen your face.
Me: Priceless, I assume!
Book: Definitely. Yup! No worries, I’m really the novel Anti-Christ.

My First Conversation with the Chair Recently Vacated by a Homeless Man:

Me: I… don’t think I can do that.

My First Brief Conversation with the Book on Deforestation:

Me: Well aren’t you just a little ironic.

My First Conversation with the Staff Door:

Me: Off for lunch.
Door: You’ll be back.
Me: Blast, you’re right.

My Second Conversation with the Staff Door:

Me: You know, every time I see you I die a little on the inside.
Door: Yeah, I hear that alot.
Me: Doesn’t that make you sad?
Door: Hey, guess what, you get to go shelve books for four more hours. Doesn’t that make -you- sad?
Door: That’s what I thought. Get back to work, manwhore.

My First Conversation With the Book Titled The Joy Of Self Sex:
Me: Wait… what the hell?
Book: Look, let me explain. I was slated to be a history textbook at first, but then some crazy school board decided I had too many controversial stories.
Me: So… they made you into a book on having sex with yourself instead…
Book: To make it simple… yes.
Me: This is just absurd.
Book: I’m still talking with my lawyers.

My First Conversation With a (Rather Short) Amish Vegan Cookbook:

Book: The next homeless man who walks by smelling like piss and pot I’m going to drop off this shelf and hit right on the head.
Me: By the size of you, it won’t do much damage.
Book: Alright, look, it’s not like we had much to work with.
Me: Literally, heh heh.
Me: See what I did there? ‘Cause vegans don’t have many ingredients to work with. Good, yeah?
Book: Oh, yeah, did you write that yourself?
Me: I spent a few hours thinking of it.
Book: Nice. Maybe next time… you can be funny.

My First Conversation With A Philosophy Book Titled On Bullshit:

Book: Read me.
Book: You know you want to.
Book: How can you resist a title like this? I mean, it’s on bullshit. How much more interesting can I possibly get?
Book: Look, it is either read me or shelve cookbooks.
Me: You win.
Book: See, interesting, yes?
Me: Not remotely. But have you ever talked to the cookbooks? I’ve almost hung myself among the Martha Stewart covers twice now. Luckily my belt isn’t quite long enough to wrap around the light fixtures. Being skinny has the additional merit of preventing suicide-by-belt, apparently. You know, you aren’t that bad, really.
Book: …you need help.

My First Conversation With A Sex Book Titled Aqua Erotica:

Me: Your pages are waterproof.
Me: That’s it. I’m leaving.

My First Conversation with the Magic Book Titled The Good Girls Book of Naughty Spells:

Me: Hey, these spells aren’t naughty at all.
Book: What do you mean? I’m simply exuding evil.
Me: Well, for example, this here spell is to make your boyfriend break up with you yet not have any bad feelings about it. To leave happy…
Book: Ooh, that’s a nasty one, yeah.
Book: Straight out of hell.
Book: I hear even the Devil is too scared to use it.
Me: You know, when I read the title, I figured there would be spells to give your boyfriend herpes or something of the sort.
Book: Isn’t that just a tad bit over the top?
Me: Aren’t they supposed to be? Naughty spells and all…
Book: Why would you ever want to do that?
Me: I’m not saying I -want- to, it’s just that your title is a bit misleading.
Book: Who do you want to give herpes to?
Book: Do they really even deserve it?
Me: Just… just forget I even mentioned it.
Book: That breakup spell is just horrid, don’t you think?
Me: Chills me to the bones.

My First Conversation With the Book Titled A New History of Germany:

Me: Um, I don’t want to be a jerk, but where is the chapter on Nazi Germany?
Book: What? Right there. In between the fight for freedom called WWI, the Great War as I like to call it, and the morals and pacifism adopted by the beautiful Germanic population during the Cold War.Way ahead of their time, they were.
Me: Oh… These ten pages?
Book: Yeah!
Me: You know, now that I read it, five of it is talking about why no one liked the Jews anyways.
Me: Yeah… These three pages just list the reasons why people were prejudiced against them.
Book: You know what I like?
Me: They were rich, against the grain of German politics, intelligent….
Book: Flowers. And fresh air. Fresh air is really underrated.
Me: In fact, this sounds more like the excuses given by Hitler then an actual history.
Book: Oooh, oooh, and a really good cup of hot chocolate.
Me: There are more pages devoted to how out-of-touch the Jewish population was then to Hitler.
Book: Hot chocolate by the fire. That’s what I need.
Book: And maybe some marshmellows. Drive away this awful cold I’ve developed.
Book: Oh, you’re still here?

My First Conversation With a Book Titled Booty: Women Pirates on the High Seas:

Me: What the… Hey! That’s actually a great title!
Book: Isn’t it?
Me: I’m impressed for the first time in my entire library experience.
Book: That’s all it took? A bit sad, really.
Me: Look man, when you see waterproof aqua-porn and books on teenage witchcraft, you have to lower your standards a bit.
Book: I gotta admit, the title is original. I mean, Booty. As in, women have booties. And are pirates. Women pirates with booties.
Me: Spot on, baby. Spot on. You know, I met my girlfriend when she was dressed as a pirate.
Book: You should buy a copy of me and give it to her!
Me: No. No, I won’t do that.

My First (And Hopefully Last) Conversation with a Returned DVD Case Filled with a (Rather Excited) Unidentified Live Bug of some sort:

Me: What the hell?
DVD Case: Get it out of me!
Me: Holy… Oh, discusting!
DVD Case: Wow, that thing could jump!
Me: Where’d it go?
DVD Case: I don’t care, oh, man, that was sick.
Me: Oh, ugh. It touched me.
DVD Case: This is chaos, man! Chaos!
DVD Case:
Me: I need a new job.
Me: Shutup.

My First Conversation with a DVD Case that Dropped From the Return Slot and Hit My Hand (Causing Me to Hurt Slightly):

Me: Owch! Son of a-
DVD Case: Score!

My First Conversation with Golf For Enlightenment by Deepak Chopra:

Book: It is impolite to stare with your jaw touching your junk.
Book: What? What’s wrong?
Me: I might be mistaken here, but I’m pretty sure Buddha did not reach enlightenment by taking a bodhi branch and whacking an apple to a hole three hundred yards away.
Me: In fact, I’m not even sure they had apples. Because they damn sure didn’t have plastic. And even if they did, Buddha wouldn’t have hit it with a stick. Because I bet he had something against breaking sticks off trees. And hitting things with them. Neither of those are too popular with him.
Me: And now that I think about it, everything about golf is probably a turn off to real Buddhists. All the bugs killed while driving the little golf cart. All the people killed getting oil for the little golf cart. All the Chinese fingers chopped off while -making- the little golfcart.
Me: And don’t even get me started on all the animals displaced by building a golf course. I bet a few hundred golfers have been reincarnated as flowers that are eaten by deer on the sunniest day ever just as payback. Or nuts gathered by squirrels -right- before they fall off and attain freedom.
Book: I get your point.
Me: This is just debasement of religion at its finest. I’m sick thinking about all the people who have grabbed this book just to give themselves the pleasure of thinking they’re favorite sport is actually some sort of  perverted religious experience.
Book: Guess how many people have actually read me.
Book: Guess.
Me: Fifty?
Book: Wrong. Two. And one was a six year old who only looked at the pictures.
Me: Who was the other?
Book: You. Just now.
Me: Did I get further then the six year old?

My First Conversation with a Book Titled The Ethical Slut:

Me: Wow. Wow. That is amazing.
Book: Hey, I know how it looks…
Me: I’ll give you one sentence to convince me this book is not an absurdity.
Book: ….
Me: That is what I thought.
Book: Wait wait, I got it.
Book: Let’s say you define “slut” as “a girl who puts out for people she likes.” An inethical sluts defines “people she likes” as everyone. An ethical sluts defines “people she likes” as “people she likes”. See, it is a very distinct line.
Me: So you are telling me that the book approve of a lifestyle of sleeping with all of your friends.
Book: Hey, if Sarah is sleeping with all of your guy friends, and tells you about it, wouldn’t it be more ethical if you just sexed her up?
Me: No, it wouldn’t be.
Book: Alright, take that reaction, and change the “no” to “yes” and the “wouldn’t” to “would” and you have the position this book argues.
Me: You have got to be kidding.
Book: Welcome to the beautiful secular world, baby. Or should I say, sextacular world.
Me: Please, never say that again.
Book: Sextacular. Just flooows off the tongue.

My First Conversation with the Computer at the Check-in Desk:

Me: Aww, that is so cute. That little boy keeps asking his mother to let him read the book he just checked out.
Computer: Yeah, it is really nice to see children interested in reading a physical book. All that passes through here is DVDs now.
Me: Totally… although, the mother doesn’t seem all that excited about it.
Computer: Yeah, she actually seems really annoyed. Strange.
Me: That’s alright. When they get home, the kid will be able to bask in the glow of literature well read.
Computer: Um, wait a minute… Let this play out.
Computer: No way.
Me: I can’t believe this.
Computer: Did she just….
Me: This is obscene.
Computer: What mother returns a book checked out moments ago by her excited son?
Me: Was she that annoyed that he wanted to read?
Computer: That has got to be one messed up childhood. I bet she did that just for the sick pleasure of making a kid cry.
Me: So THAT is why kids don’t read anymore.
Computer: Yeah, show a little excitement and they get shot down.
Me: I don’t even have a punch line for this… I’m just going to curl up and die right now.
Computer: That’s all we can do…

My First Conversation with a Book Laying On the Ground:

Me: You know, the British have been accused of putting fake rocks in Russia with cameras inside. Rather ingenious.
Me: How do I know you aren’t a British Spy-Book.
Me: Well, if you are a British Spy-Book, you aren’t going to get much of a view. Say hello to Martha Stewart and the cook books.
Me: I hope the British like cold smiles of death. Because that’s about all you see in this aisle.

My First Conversation with the Book Beside The Dalai Lama Books:

Book: Look, I know your reputation. You better not even start on the Dalai Lama.
Me: I know this sounds bad…
Book: Think carefully about what you say.
Me: But doesn’t it seem a bit… um…
Book: Don’t do it.
Me: I’m just going to flat out say it.
Book: Oh God.
Me: His books suck.
Book: You are going to hell.

My Second Coversation with the Book Beside the Dalai Lama Books:

Me: So the Dalai Lama came out with a new book.
Book: Oh yeah?
Me: Guess what it’s about.
Book: No.
Me: Wrong! Love!
Book: What’s your point?
Me: Well, I was just wondering… you think the Dalai Lama ever just wants to write a mystery book?
Me: Cause, you know, he has like ten books about love out now. He can’t possibly have that much material to work with. Love is good, it helps, do it, etc. Everyond just expects it of him, though, so he can’t very well go and change his style now.
Me: But I bet, some nights, he just wants to sit down and throw a good horror book together. You know, zombies popping out of the ground and vampires wiping out villages. Blood and undead guts everywhere…
Me: Or how about a romance novel? He’s so into love, he could possibly write the hottest romance novel out there! How to use love to get everyone in your bed…
Me: Even a Dalai Lama historical-action novel would be great. A twist where he kicked the Chinese army’s ass for days straight until he was betrayed by his best friend’s girlfriend and had to flee the country, killing hundreds on his way out. In loving self-defense, of course…
Book: What are you talking about? It’s the Dalai Lama! He doesn’t think about zombies or sex or killing Chinese!
Me: Well, I bet he does think about killing Chinese at the very least…
Me: God, you have no imagination, do you.