A Dallying Dance with Death

So obviously oblivious, the dilapidated wretch's coat of life slips away, barring freedom no more for the worm's sweet meats. The functionality of loneliness escapes the bereaved's lips, laughing a lonely translucent screen of delightedly tangled emotions. Softly, the innumerable reasons and half-chanced perforations to mortality tap listlessly on the bent shoulders of absolution, screaming the courting whisper to glide with abject reasons to a double step tango. However, there are "no mistakes in the tango, not like life. It's simple. That's what makes the tango so great. If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, just tango on." Leaving a succinctly real imprint upon the soul's clinging, wide-eyed attempts to not falter or fail. A dance that leaves all breathless, astonished at a previously unfound swagger towards surreal and superfluous thoughts of grandeur, immortality, and all other child-esque failings that claim victory over the most vivacious and real thoughts of reality.
Dumfounded explications of unwrought misery falter at the adjunct truth that the static conclusion empties every cup, whether partially filled or brimming full. Cataclysm's that gape their maws, ferociously fanged, yet harmlessly tethered, bringing disillusioned fear unto the un-fearable. Apathy objects no less, but delights ever more, when confronted with intelligible wants and cast off needs; levering fact away from fiction until fictional facts constitute lightly trodden footsteps absent of a path. The eternal gaze from eyes, clouded with the mysteries of the ever-after, glance accursedly at sobbing lines of ritual. Peace, a rarely found entity, holds no immeasurable sway over angelic choruses or satanic riffs; however, it finds a loosely abridged juxtaposition within the six feet under Blake's reveled marriage. Emaciated, rotting words hold no king's title over rented plots of plastic carnations while bloating and bothersome eulogies puff pretension through the bellows of summarizing the un-summarizable.
The prize of unwavering determination skips through the fingers of all but those with the cyclical knowledge of life. Fear of no control, pain, thoughts left unexpressed... the nightmares of human protagonation swept with fiery vehemence provides no excuse or allowance for the self-pity of the inevitable. Life is better lived than watched, better watched than feared, and better feared than apathized .

A Storyteller in Each of Us

We find at some point in our life we feel a detachment from the life that has given us the substance of our past. We lose the vivacity and color that enchanted us for so long. We feel lost in a sea, trapped in a boat made of stone, slowly sinking from what makes us...us. Our displaced identity follows like a shadow, ever slinking behind our shoulder, it's length supplanted by where each of us are in our respective journeys in life. Mario Vargas novel The Storyteller shows one of the main characters, Saul, in such a situation. Saul's displaced cultural identity detaches him from his Western roots, deeply seeped in a dominant discourse, and eventually show's Saul's slip back to what made him who he was. Moreover, the arguments for and against the effects of globalization that skate throughout the lines of the novel effect Saul's search for a new identity and his overture to the true chord of his life. 

The storyteller resides in all of us, we all have past, present, and future experiences that give weight to this world. Whether it is escaping to a foreign country or a lengthy walk in a favorite destination, we escape for moments or months from who and what we really are, we exist in a discordant harmony with  everyone and no one. Tell your story if someone asks, not only they, but you, will be surprised at what you hear and find. 

Know that knowing is not knowing that you know

First I want to share a quote by Socrates and include a little-known secondary quote relating to it.

"The only wisdom is in knowing that you know nothing."

-Socrates


"Oh, here we go! Can't we get through one meal without your goddamn philosophizing? No, I guess not, because you think you're soooo deep, don't you? You just can't get over what a cool guy you are, can you? All day long I have to hear this, on and on, beauty and truth and virtue blah ba blah and I'M SICK OF IT! YOU HEAR ME?! Xenophon's wife doesn't have to put up with this shit! And why? Because HE has an ACTUAL JOB! Oooooooh, crazy, isn't it? He goes to his ACTUAL JOB and does ACTUAL WORK! Oooooooooh! Philosophize that, you ass."


-Mrs. Socrates

So there was this guy, you know the kind of guy I'm talking about, yeah that guy. The one who is kind  

of a dick, ok ok I am being a little nice, this guy is a complete pile o' shit. He had these preconceived notions that he was some all-mighty, king-like god...(<--haha I know right, what a dingus) well any-who this guy, whom we shall (for the sake of this story) call Suez (he was a part-mexican border jumper or something) really liked sheep... I mean REALLY liked sheep. He would disguise himself as something completely innocent and unassuming, like Justin Bieber or Amanda Bynes-esque, and this guy, Suez, would fly around the whole goddamn world, stopping off and sneaking into fields (like it takes a fucking ninja to sneak in to a field...) and he would get jiggy with the sheep, yeah this guy was into some serious beastailitly. Gross. I know. Anyway there was this one night when he was feeling particularly engorged by his baaaa-d desires (get it) and he flew over to Copenhagen and sneakily snuck (like he was some sort of Mission Impossible badass) in to a sheep field where gasp there were some sheep. He saw this one in particular who was... I don't know...hot? curly? swexy? (sweater-sexy?), it got him all hot and bothered. So he disguised himself as David Shwimmer ( you know that guy who kind of looks like a goose) and snuck right up to this swexy sheep and in his deepest Shwimmiest voice he says, "Hey big girl, you look like you could use a stress reliever." (It was getting sheared the next day, so it was a little worried that its wool wouldn't be swexy enough)

The sheep replied, "Baaaa...baaa.baaaaa...baaaaa.baaaaa," Loosely translated to "O M G! David Shwimmer! OMG OMG!!!." 

"Ohhhh yeahhhhhh," Suez thought to himself, "Doesn't even recognize me...because no one has really ever seen me without one of my super cool disguises....hmm so how the hell would anyone know it was me?" (It was because he had a super terrible tan all the time... he was just oblivious...or dumb....or dumbly oblivious)  but he starts to seduce this sheep (I know right!? What the fuck) and the sheep starts to say "hey, hey, lets slow it down here.... I am not a shlut (sheep-slut)." But Suez would have none of it and in all his power (ok ok it's not that much power, I mean its a sheep and he's a guy; why don't you try it with a Grizzly you ass) he held down the poor sheep and raped her... And oh I almost forgot! Suez had a wife... pretty crazy, I know. But somehow his wife found out what he had been up to (checked his iPhone) and went into a cool and reserved rage on him, but shit hit the fan when she found out who the sheep was (like it was the sheep's fault or something) and she went to Copenhagen and she found this sheep who had been shlutting around with her man so she did what any pissed off wife would do and she made the sheep's wool all itchy and scratchy, and that's why wool to this day is still itchy.... And pissed off wives still bitchy.