syn dromos

When will humanity's wetware run together in solidarity?


a really stupid poem
me2
neuroaster
The palm of my hand has been finged by one of my fingers

Which finger finged has yet to be determined

Reliable sources report the finger was ruthless

Some sources claim a spider was spided

One reporter tried to interview an answer

The answer was busy answing at the time

Experts claim the news is sugar for the reader

The public is not insulted by the claim

This event has warranted exclusive, live, active coverage

For all of the parties concerned who bothered to notice

I am unavailable for comment; please leave a message

The palm of my hand has been finged by one of my fingers

littera scripta manet
me2
neuroaster
Palms, pens, fingers, and pencils cross the Blank Paper Desert

Leaving lonely abandoned glyphs and graphemes in their wake

Each text waits to be read, ignored, obscured, unremembered

Pages rot in arcane existence, quietly opaque

Why is this train-station-of-thought here, where no trains-of-thought ever arrive?

When shall deserted documents bask in the sunlight of attention?

Manuscripts wait just to be found once by one roving mind’s fortunate swerve

Manuscripts ache in Ignorance-Limbo, a melancholy dungeon

Printing-machines mass-produce our wireless, mouse-less, link-less papyrus

Organized by ISBN’s and the Dewey Decimal System

None of our schools cover all ideas and concepts published around us

Nobody on Earth knows all; nobody’s got the perfect cerebrum

Through life, even the most informed have more to discover and explore

Each true spirited soul believes in some useful effort

Palms, pens, fingers, and pencils bravely hope to enlighten and inspire

Palms, pens, fingers, and pencils cross the Blank Paper Desert

expertus dico
me2
neuroaster
I am this introvert, born to take in only so much of your output at a time

I was never born to thrive on all that you crave

Why is it crucial to share the fast pace now in vogue, just so our wavelengths are the same?

What if this attention-span is all I can give?

Why do six-billion human beings all have to be “hip” “trendy” and “cool”?

Why do six-billion have to learn and teach at the same speed?

I am sure someone somewhere also must think what I think, feel what I feel

I am sure someone somewhere must be tired of this rushed ride

I enjoy the sun out on my own, whether or not I miss today’s hype

Spending all day just to mouse-click and to type would be a shame

I was born to walk out in the fresh-air of the planet Earth and breathe deep

Born to take in only so much of your output at a time

Here's what I accomplished this weekend:
me2
neuroaster
Image and video hosting by TinyPic

so true
me2
neuroaster
Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Our best night together
me2
neuroaster
1. Sushi at an authentic Japanese restaurant and playing footsie under the table

2. A snuggle on a park bench under a full moon

3. Natalie Cole's collection of her enchanted ballads on the CD player during our drive home

4. The Animatrix (a sci-fi classic) on our DVD-player

5. A shower together with the ordinary electric lights switched off and decorative candles providing ambient light :)

Spambots or humans may leave whatever comments
me2
neuroaster
Why do you ask where and how I’ve been when I’m always a mouse-click away?

Why do you seem to be allergic to Facebook and Twitter?

Where is the shared, open flexibility Cyberspace once promised me?

All our conflicting “options” divide us forever

If you’re sincere, send a crapless, gagless e-mail to just me, and not a contact-list

Learn something about the first sites I rush to, not just the ONE site that you cling to

Why is this so hard to understand? I’m rushing to touch base, and gee what thanks I get

Why simply assume I’ve just vanished into thin air, and then ask me “Where were you?”???

There is a lot more to Cyberspace than just Multiply Dot Com

When was the last time that Multiply Dot Com was mentioned on the news?

Blogging allows more than telephones could first do when they first came

Yet there is chit-chat entirely throughout countless ordinary blogs

I have Googled many of you, and discovered where else you’ve popped up

Just to be asked where I vanished to everywhere I fail to make frequent time for

I should rediscover my introvert-self, and feel free to just type

Letting the Muse have her way, and accepting that I can’t appease every reader

I’m as confused at least as much as I am confusing, when and if I confuse at all

Why are you so sure the site you’ve chosen is where I’ll appear every day?

Why would your single one irrelevant, obscure chosen site have such broad appeal?

Why do you ask where and how I've been when I'm always a mouse-click away?

Some new text on my blog
me2
neuroaster
Left and right feet rise and fall on sidewalks in waves of elevation

I am Pedestrian Man, born to walk

Born to take notes, born to witness all of the non-events that happen

Nowhere to run, and there’s no turning back

Meet me at the corner of Viewthread Avenue and Showtopic Road

Meet me in the xenozone where few feet ever step

Anything you want you can keep, except for what I fail to provide

Anything I don’t possess is not worth any hype

Love, hate, or ignore me, I do not care

I am as common as the Earth

One man on the solar system’s blue sphere

Facing reality and truth

Still in one piece with zero dollars and zero cents

Still enduring a journey not complete yet

Crossing life’s distance over time at the healthiest pace

Crossing sidewalks and streets with left and right feet

sidewalk chalk
me2
neuroaster
All of the things my sister and I wrote and drew in sidewalk chalk in our youth have long since faded away . . .

The time we pretended she was a teacher and I was a student, and I wrote:

“i will do what teacher says

i will do what teacher says

i will do what teacher says . . .”

The time we drew Pac-Man and Mario throwing barrels at Donkey Kong and The Ghost-Monsters.

The time we drew Mario walking up to a mushroom cloud and thinking “Golly, how do I get out of this one?”

The time we drew the sun smiling down on a cornfield and saying “Grow, grow . . .”

The time we wrote:

“KEN AND BARBIE SITTING IN A TREE

K-I-S-S-I-N-G”

The hopscotch court we drew . . .

The time we drew the Middle-Aged Pervert Krishna Gerbils.

The time we drew the Care Bears versus Ewoks football game.

The time we wrote “COKE RULES AND PEPSI SUCKS” up and down the neighborhood.

The sloppy pictures we drew of our super-hero “OttoMan” saving the world from “The Evil Dr. Byzantine.”

All of the things my sister and I wrote and drew in sidewalk chalk in our youth have long since faded away . . .

The Tree and I
me2
neuroaster
One cold February day, when I was still a preteen (this was still a while before my mother died of cancer in 1993), I made up my mind that the Christmas decorations had stayed up in front of my mother’s house long enough. We were always the last people in the whole neighborhood to take down the Christmas lights in front of our house. I made up my mind that this was a priority, that someone had to take the initiative here, and that it might as well be me.

With stubbornness, incredulity, and focused determination, I suited up in my winter coat, mittens, and boots, and marched straight to the front door, where the goofy multi-colored flashing miniature light-bulbs lay draped across a wiry, scrawny, leafless deciduous tree just beside the front steps of our house. Why weren’t these dxmn things taken down by now? How hard could it really be anyway?

With firm resolve, I stomped down our front steps, strutted right up to the decorated tree, and stood in front of it, assessing the seemingly straightforward task before me. Christmas decorations up in February, how silly! This, I decided, was not going to wait a moment longer. It was time. Period.

I reached out in front of me to where part of the bulb-laden cable hung down from one of thin, limp, brittle deciduous branches. I grabbed the electric cable and began to pull. Suddenly, the tree-branch itself snapped off, whopped me on the forehead (leaving a slight scar that I would see in the mirror later), then fell on the toe-end of my left boot. I blinked, grunted, then noticed that the cable itself was no further off of the tree than when I had begun.

Undaunted, I fiddled a bit with the cable, searching for its proverbial Achilles’ heel, a place where it was more loose and more vulnerable to being removed. After a minute or two, I came across the end of the cable that extended a short distance away from the tree. I followed this extension with my eyes, and found that it terminated at the outdoor electrical outlet attached to the front of the garage, where the cable was plugged in. My lower jaw dropped to what must have been my ankles! How stupid not to have thought of unplugging these stupid flashing Christmas lights before getting them off the tree!

I took a deep breath, sighed, and plodded toward the electrical outlet to unplug the dxmn cable. Suddenly, I slid on the ice and fell with one hard WHOMP down on my ass! “OOH!” I grunted! Now, I was really pissed off!

With a sneer, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and took slow, cautious steps toward the electrical outlet. I finally unplugged the dxmn cable, and carried the plug end back to the tree.

I wound part of the plug end of the cable around my forearm. I could almost taste victory. I reached my hand closer into the tree to get at the bulb-laden portion of the cable and pull it out. But much of the cable was intricately intertwined with the dry, cold, and prickly deciduous branches. The cable could not just be pulled; it had to be untangled.

I pried apart two deciduous branches that had a portion of the cable between them, and suddenly they snapped apart like a wishbone! The next thing I knew, my right wrist was scraped and bleeding! How did THAT happen???

An hour later, the dxmn Christmas decorations were finally down and put away in some box somewhere, and I was wearing bandages in several places. Just as I was resolving never to attempt taking down Christmas decorations ever again, my mother called me to the kitchen, where a found that she had baked a tray of delicious chocolate muffins, as a kind of reward for my labor and my helpfulness.

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