Were we split or shaken by qualms and quarrels,
Quaked from boughs in bushels no longer cherished;
Were we rocked from resting upon our laurels,
      Laureates perished,

Sense would part from substance, go unattended,
Try to sense itself, but not sensing ever;
Substance lacking sense would be left unmended,
      Parted forever:

Blue apart from sky, for the air was looted;
Red not rock nor flame nor a beating bloodline;
Grassless green, the sod and the seed uprooted;
      Light without sunshine;

Heat without the sun's heavy tide of summer;
Sweet without a tongue nor a licking lapping;
Beat without the blow of the drum, nor drummer
      Steadily clapping.

Could you bear to tear our ownselves asunder?
Rather, let us bend at the laurel lightly,
Quiver little to strain not the bough whereunder
      Fasten us tightly.

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O bough,
                  whence springs the apple of my eye,
Whose apples sup the music from your skin,
Let not your fingers falter in their grip
To let the wind unclench your sturdy hand
Before your fruits with ripened melodies
Incline themselves to fall upon the clay.

O apple,
                  whose descent does me disease
For with you leaves a shiver of my flesh
And kills me, steals a seed of what I am,
And plants below the clay another tree
Whose apples taste familiar with my song
And chokes the very roots from which it sprung:
Instead, let you be plucked and carried off
And swallowed from the flesh until the core,
And let your better music be enjoyed
But bitter seed discarded and destroyed.

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Out of the deeps rise the days, climb dawns and peak noons
Over dry fields dragging or drenched seabeds,
Over boughs bearing fertile buds and flowers;
Out comes the star-doggèd sun, a scent of the moon
Over fish, gulls flocking and flying seabound,
Over shoreside sheep and shepherds alike.
On the rest, rain falls ruin for the evening;
Daylong drifting drowns in the nighttime,
Sinks to the seabed, stifled and constant;
No shifting to shore but towards shallows of death.
When all is authored, what aches to be writ
But the death of the deity who drafted it?

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Finally, I recorded a decent version of my "Easy Listening" song from the "Car" sketch a few entries down.

"Easy Listening"

Thank you, Casio, for providing much of the background music.

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A bit of a dark-comedy song I wrote.

F
Mike, I need to tell you
       Am
That I don't know what compelled you
   Dm                          Bb
To go and get a girl behind my back
Dm        C               Bb
Was I not stunning in the sack?
Bbm                             F	Dm
Wherever you got her, bring her back
Bb                          F
I can't stand this lifeless hack

      F
Well, sure, she's very pretty
    Am
And is kind of witty
        Dm                          Bb
But she just isn't a substitute for me
Dm           C          Bb
I think that Leon would agree
Bbm                      F	Dm
She just ain't my cup of tea
Bb                              F
Ooh, she's like a bitter cup of tea

F
She may have charm
             Am
But it takes more to run a farm
     Dm                        Bb
What ever happened to our soya beans?
Dm               C             Bb
How could you forget about our dreams
   Bbm                          F	Dm
To manufacture lactose-free ice creams?
Bb                      F
Ooh, you did forget, it seems

    F
You think that she's your honey
          Am
But she's in it for the money
  Dm                                  Bb
I bet she made you change your living will
Dm   C           Bb
Do I get your TV still?
Bbm                         F	Dm
Oh, she wants your blood to spill
Bb     C              Dm
She is coming for the kill

     D7sus4    Dm
Then after she kills you
  Bb               Dm
I bet she goes and grills you
       Gm              Bb           A7
She'll pickle all your fingers in a brine
      Dm      C7        Bb7              Gm7   
Whoa, on your flesh for many days she'll dine
    F                                    A7
And with your meat she'll drink a bloody wine
Bb                                  C	C7
Perhaps this last verse crossed the line

F
I know that I'm a guy
         Am
But I've still got a bit of thigh
         Dm                                 Bb
And I'll wear a dress if that's what you prefer
      Dm             C                  Bb
We'll be the best of friends there ever were
Bb      C   C/Bb      Am  C    Dm
I  need you more than you need her
   Bb               C                  F
Oh Mike, I need you more than you need her
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While considering my own mortality, I realized that there may still be a way to live forever. Although our bodies, or movement, will eventually die, our words, art, and ideas, or perhaps what I can call our logos, can live beyond us. Plato died in 347 B.C., but his ideas and writings still carry his name and bring him life over 23 centuries later. Thus I feel that we live two lives: the life of our physical movement, and the life of our logos. Based on the ferocity of the symbiosis between these two parts of our greater whole, our logos may live longer than our physical movement, granting us a longer life. Plato may never die so long as humans survive.

In modern times, however, it seems less likely that our personal logos will maintain life past our physical deaths, due to myriad factors. There are billions of people alive today in the global consciousness, making it very hard to stick out. Fame is now rarely rewarded for truly magnificent thought and action, but instead is allotted via more accidental and superficial means. Immortality of personal logos is something reserved for and dealt out by those already famous, or those with money. Material wealth seems to determine whose words get to survive and whose do not; things may have operated this way for centuries, perhaps even in Plato's time to some extent. What a silly concept money is! Though I can talk about that another time.

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