So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
Ethnicity. that of my father and his father before him
Location Cherry Hills Vil, CO
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The Link To Zanzibar's Past
This is my page in the beloved art community that my sister got me into:
Extra points for people who know what Samarinda is.
The Phases of the Moon Module
The Tree and the Telephone Pole
I Do Not Know Their Names
Today I am Young
A Night Poem
Siren of the Sea
If I Were a Dragon
To the Dreamers Leave the Sky
The Honor of the Oyster
Return From San Diego
A Late Summer's Night
Of Dragons and Men
The Edge of the World
The Snake's Terror
Metaphysics and the Middaymoon
Of Adventures in Foreign Lands
The Rogue Wave: The Unedited Version
Adventures in the PRC
Voyage of Discovery
Drinking the Blood of Goats
Ticket for a Phantom Bus
Os peixes nadam o mar
Three Villages Far Away
The River Weser
Children I Should Have Kidnapped, Part I
Let's Get You Out of Those Clothes
If Underwear Could Speak
Croc Hunter/Combat Wombat
Only My Favorite Baseball Player EVER
Aw, Larry Walker, how I loved thee.
M: Science and Exploration
T: Cook a nice dinner
Th: Parties, movies, dinners
F: Picnics, the Louvre
S: Read books, go for walks, PARKOUR
Su: Philosophy, Religion
The Reading List
This list starts Summer 2006
A Crocodile on the Sandbank
Tales of the Alhambra (in progress)
Dark Lord of Derkholm
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
The Lost Years of Merlin
Harry Potter a l'ecole des sorciers (in progress)
Atlas Shrugged (in progress)
A Long Way Gone (story of a boy soldier in Sierra Leone- met the author! w00t!)
The Eye of the World: Book One of the Wheel of Time
From Magma to Tephra (in progress)
Lady Chatterley's Lover
Harry Potter 7
The No. 1 Lady's Detective Agency
Introduction to Planetary Volcanism
A Child Called "It"
Is Multi-Culturalism Bad for Women?
Americans in Southeast Asia: Roots of Commitment (in progress)
What's So Great About Christianity?
Aeolian Dust and Dust Deposits
The City of Ember
The People of Sparks
When I was in Cuba, I was a German Shepard
The Golden Compass
Clan of the Cave Bear
The 9/11 Commission Report (2nd time through, graphic novel format this time, ip)
The Incredible Shrinking Man
The Elves of Cintra
The Gypsy Morph
Animorphs #23: The Pretender
Animorphs #25: The Extreme
Animorphs #26: The Attack
A Journey to the Center of the Earth
A Great and Terrible Beauty
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
To Sir, With Love
Alice in Wonderland
Through the Looking Glass
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
The Hunger Games
Shadows and Strongholds
The Jungle Book
Beatrice and Virgil
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
No One Ever Told Us We Were Defeated
The Name of the Wind
Tao Te Ching
What Paul Meant
Lao Tzu and Taoism
Sand and Sandstones
Lost Christianites: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew
The Science of God
Great Contemporaries, by Winston Churchill
City of Bones
Around the World in 80 Days, by Jules Verne
Stranger in a Strange Land
The Old Man and the Sea
Flowers for Algernon
Au Bonheur des Ogres
The Road to Serfdom
De La Terre ŕ la Lune (ip)
In the Light of What We Know
Devil in the White City
The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August
How to Be a Good Wife
A Mote in God's Eye
want to read: Last Hunger Games Book, Honeybee Democracy, The Bell Jar
I get bored in Literature of the Romantic Period!
Thursday. 6.23.05 8:47 pm
Zanzibar's Random Poetry Corner:
(a note: Zanzibar is not necessarily the speaker in any of Zanzibar's poetry)
An attempt at iambic pentameter:
(This comes from a conversation we had in English once about the naming of houses among English nobles. There was a hierarchy among all living things, with God at the top, angels, humans, animals, and finally plants. The lion was the highest animal and the rose was the highest plant, but all animals were above plants. When we got to the War of the Roses, we wondered why the houses would choose a high plant as opposed to a low animal. We asked our teacher what the lowest animal was and she told us it was the oyster. Thus was born Sonnet to the Oyster.)
Nigh was the onset of the night
The air was full of moisture
Not for any cause of right
But for the honor of the oyster
I came from deep in blackn'd wood
To watch the flags unfurl
As if might determines o'er all who should
And in whose power belongs the Pearl.
(death of poetic structure...)
At last the will of those who win are pressed upon those who lose
Day breaks, it tears
The day is theirs
They have crushed the enemies' souls on the soles of shoes.
And all throu' the misty hills passed we
Not quick'nd to flee, or fancy free
But steadily, like the eroding fingertips of ocean foam
Weary but glad; we were on our way home.
It was Hell; I know for I was there
I smelled the rotting bodies; and chose my path with care.
You were not there, yet you question what Iâ€™ve said
You were not there, to look into the glassy eyes of the newly dead.
It killed my Soul; I know for I could feel it.
I heard its final anguished death as the Devil failed to steal it.
You were not there, yet you question what Iâ€™ve said
You were not there, to hear the screaming in my head.
It was Necessary; I know for I gave all
I tasted the bitter hopelessness of the powâ€™rless and the small
You were not there, but you dare to question me
You were not there to die to set those people free.
The Giants pass by and summon with a great magnetic force
And like a bit of iron I flinch and jerk at their proximity.
In my warm study there is a busy ticking
With earnest focused industry my pen is steadâ€™ly flicking
At once outside a spiritâ€™s fury rises; and blowing branches bare
It pulls with trembling wrath its fingers through the willowâ€™s tumbling hair.
It is not ceasing! Violence, there still it blows!
A blackbird strains with northward purpose, but southward still it goes.
Like a gaggle of frenzied coyote pups it begins to yip and howls...
I look to the wall for friendly clock but back at me it scowls.
And then the storm is gone again, the wheezing willow falls flat
The returning sun slinks through my window like a lazy summer cat.
Before me lies my lifeless sheaths so long on which Iâ€™ve toiled
Still in my forgotten hand my heavy pen is coiled
Is freedom here inside my books? and in notes with care and gravity lettered?
No! I wish to escape by yonder window there and run through life unfettered.
and some awesome words from the professionals:
"I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the Beautiful even if my night's labours should be burnt every morning and no eye ever shine upon them."
and of course Blake:
"The tree which moves some to tears is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing that stands in the way"
Sunday. 5.29.05 6:21 pm
Take the Online Dating Profile Quiz at Dating Diversions
on the blogs of others
Friday. 5.27.05 5:46 pm
the hard thing about coming home is dealing with all the problems you made and then ran away from the last time you came home.
Some girls don't like boys like me, oh, but some
Friday. 5.27.05 3:29 pm
Today I am learning Spanish from a series of tapes. Hopefully by the end of the day I will know Spanish.
The other day I went to Caroline's house and on the way there I met this homeless guy on the side of the road. I was cruising along listening to 95.7 Latino and Proud really loud with the window rolled down and I had to stop at the light. It was ridiculous to pretend I didn't see him, so I rooted around in my car to see if I had anything I could give him. I didn't really, I only had big bills, so I told him I was sorry, I didn't have anything for him. He said that me smiling at him was worth a million dollars. We chatted for a little while. He was 67 years old. He turned out to be really nice. I wondered what he was doing here on the side of the road since he was obviously rather nice and intelligent. The light turned green and I never saw him again.
I've been learning a lot about Che Guevara lately, I saw The Motorcycle Diaries and decided that I really didn't know a lot about this controversial figure and I ought to look into it deeper. Especially when some of the lines about how traveling changes you seemed to resonate so forcefully in light of my own recent travels. My mother brought home "El Che" which is an amazing documentary about Che's life told through video and pictures and the words of those who knew him. He is intriguing partly because he is so damn good looking and at the same time so amazingly committed to his ideals. Totalitarian, socialist, violent, brutal, I admire him because he held himself to all the same standards as he held others. There was no hypocrisy there. I don't agree with him, I would never join his rebellion, but I think if anyone could convince me to join it, it would be him.
It's the indescribable allure of somebody who has principles and follows them no matter what, usually getting absolutely nothing done for their cause because they are so unwilling to compromise and eventually dying a "martyr's death".
Then again there is somebody like Gandhi. Now there's a man whose principles were based on compromise. He was so unwilling to compromise on his wish to compromise that he ended up being killed for it, too. And he was able to accomplish a lot. Che was able to accomplish a lot, too... but he had to kill a hell of a lot more people and the result has since proved to be bittersweet if not completely sour
Anyway, Latin America is really interesting. This entry isn't really well phrased, I realize, but that's because my mind is still processing and I haven't gone through the phrasing phase. Phrasing phase. Phrase phase heap ape pa a. I've become a lot more random lately. I attribute it to the fact that I can type faster.
Sunday. 5.22.05 9:43 pm
Dakar looked around a little cautiously. He was still hiding out in the middle of the forest, waiting for Jasper to return. He coiled up at the edge of the pond and slithered his long forked tongue into the water. He wanted to see if he could just keep it there and not let it dart in and out like a lizard. It was an old exercise from his days in training, meant to widen the gap that made lizards lizards and dragons their lords. He brought whatever small amount of water his tongue had collected slowly and measuredly back into his mouth. Dragons seldom drank water. Everyone always said that it surpressed the Fire. Dakar didn't have the fire. Neither did they. What were they so worried about? The water was delicious and cold. He let some of it seep between his teeth and down his throat. He didn't think of anything, his mind was preoccupied with the smell of the forest and the delicious dribble of the water down his chin. He wondered what it would be like to go for a swim. Jasper loved swimming. He always giggled and splashed and acted like a complete fool whenever he was covered in water. The water loved Jasper. It invigorated him. Dakar wondered if it could do the same for him. The pond wasn't very deep. So what if dragons couldn't swim, he could simply wade in the bright clear water and watch the colorful fish dart about his body. He gazed longingly into the pond.
Sunday. 5.22.05 9:31 pm
He had been lying in the shadow of the cavern all day, watching Chalco and his friends as they flew in and out over the water. They were playing a game centered around an old cormorant, but the bird was sluggish and their repeated passes had made it frightened and confused- it flew in erratic circles and its feathers were coming out in crazy bursts. Dakar's large eyes, like deep black mirrors, followed the unfortunate bird. His head lay cradled between his forearms and his ears were fanned just enough to catch hints of the brilliant blue sea crashing on the cliff-side so many hundreds of feet below. His stomach was sick with pity. Chalco had been sitting on a precipice at the edge of the cavern for some time, his forearms crossed in contemplation, the sunlight glittering off of his brilliant purple-gold scales, casting a thousand dancing lights backwards into the cave. The sunlight suited Chalco perfectly. He looked like the sparkling idols of old that decorated the ancient temples in the city-center. Dakar preferred the darkness. It protected him, it wrapped its cool, stretchy arms around him and made everyone else let him alone.
"Oh, leave that tired old bird already" called Chalco lazily from his perch. His eyes sparkled. "It's time for Dakar's training."
Dakar's head snapped up and a cold chill ran through his body. The circling dragons murmured with excitement and came to roost on the cave's edge. The lone cormorant fluttered vainly towards the cliff's summit, dropped ten feet, paused, and then plummeted haphazardly the thousand feet into the sea. Chalco easily leaped the twenty feet from the precipice to the cavern. He surveyed his friends' faces.
"So far we have been testing Dakar's courage and fortitude, trying to turn him from a weak little iguana into one of us. We have trained him to endure great pain without so much as a grimace. Now is the time for his final test.â€ť
The final test. Its formal name was the Snakeâ€™s Terror, but Chalco probably invented the name that very day, standing there in the bright sunlight, the sweet-smelling sea breeze buffeting his smiling whiskers, commanding the rapt attention of his friends with a slow soft stream of suggestions.
Within a few minutes Dakar had been prepared. His wings were lashed to his body with a series of carefully tied knots. His arms and legs were tied to each other. Without his limbs, he had the same abilities of a snake, the others agreed. He had use of neck and tail, but they muzzled his snout so he could not speak or cry out for help. They meant to push him off the Cormorantâ€™s Wharf, whose tiered peak was just high enough to break his legs if he tried to land on them while they were tied. If he panicked, they would let him fall. If he showed good resolve, they would save him. Things did not go as planned. Before they started down, there was an argument; Dakar could never remember how it started. Arseno, a pugnacious black angular dragon wanted to cast the little green dragon from the mouth of the cavern. The Cormorantâ€™s Wharf was hardly sufficient for a final test, some of the others agreed. Chalco became very angry. Dakar could not speak. One eye was pressed into the sandy rock and the other saw only shadows and sky. The cliff edge came closer. There was a scuffle. He felt a hard shove and then there was only empty space. The air rushed past him. He was falling, still falling. His wings tried to open on instinct but their bonds held fast. Panic seized his stomach. Around him there was still only empty space.
The fall to the water should have killed him. Instead he crashed into the top of the Cormorantâ€™s Wharf, the top of his intended platform dive. The wood splintered. The highest platform gave way. He struck the next, and the next, and the rotting wood came with him with deafening crunches. At last he bounced free of the scaffolding, free-falling the remaining distance straight into the sea. It hit him like a rock wall, knocking the breath from his lungs. As soon as the water managed to get out of the way, it came coursing back. He could not move his arms. The ropes cut into his wings. His breathing was quick and short. He could not breathe. The water was rising. The salt burned his eyes and nostrils. There was broken wood everywhere.
Suddenly there were claws on his skin. They pulled, lifted him out of the burning, sucking water and onto dry land.
Dakar could not fly again for more than six months. His father never asked what happened. He did not want to know. He never visited Dakar in the infirmary, and when Dakar was finally back on his feet, his look of utter shame at the sight of his sonâ€™s limping figure was enough to discourage the young dragon from ever approaching his father again. He never told him that it was Chalco, his most beloved son, who had orchestrated the entire fiasco. He never told him that it was Chalco who caused the bruising and the swelling that often ruined his chances on Race Day. And Dakar never knew that it was Chalco whose shove had finally pushed him over the edge that day.
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