Histormyth: an ambidextrous and more accurate description of the terms history and mythology, as history is steeped with the artifices of myth and myth has streaks of truth that could be called history. Both share a stormy background in which experts duke it out for the rights of their worldview verified as the dominant (not necessarily accurate) perspective on history and myth.
We started at JB’s Stout, where it breathed as a multi-cellular existence and the patrons roared with a single voice when a rubber ball was passed through a hoop. Alcohol fueled anxieties and joys brought out the screaming lunatic in otherwise settled individuals as I pondered nationalism in its many faces. I sipped coffee that confused nostrils with expectations of beer reek.
The night found us across L-town deep in the heart of matters. It was pandemonium clothed in a sea of blue. Hands outstretched slap slap slapping all night long. The streets clogged with a procession of entourages that moved at an inchworm’s pace, of truck beds choked with drunken revelers, of overflowing cars breasting a tide of humanity. A kaleidoscope of triumph, of humanity’s many varieties re-enacting a macrocosm of comedies and tragedies. My retinas drank it all in: the angry upraised fist, a failed punch, scared scatterings; the wet-lipped wild abandon of lust on a bench play of dry congress unmindful of sopping drinks in hand; jittery children wired with the enthusiasm of their parents; a girl weeping into her cell phone while cries of joy and delight echoed above her head; the bemused expressions of helpless police officers who could do nothing but stand and watch, for the press of people is too much to moderate; the crunch of beer cans and water bottles underfoot; countless high fives that I imagine the owners of these hands waking up in the morning to find them swollen.
I wish I could do the scene justice with my words. Kansas fans are hardcore. Too hardcore for my tastes, really. Better sports than wars I say, but doesn’t seem to be working too well these days. 
My sister and I were at upstate New York for Thanksgiving. During dinner, Heaven, our cousin’s six year old daughter, wanted to know why I didn’t talk. My sister explained that I was deaf and used sign language instead of speaking. Heaven then asked: “Why does he have a mouth if he can’t talk?”
Using a meticulously honed razor, I cut a square piece of parchment paper exactly in half. Removing one half of the paper, I then proceeded to cut the remaining piece of paper into half. Repeating the same procedure as previously described, I whittled away that piece of parchment until it was too small to handle with my cumbersome fingers. I brought a self-made looking glass into play whose bright asset was to direct light through a sequence of polished glass lenses until the object of scrutiny was thus enlarged by a factor of several magnitudes. I clumsily wielded the razor, wickedly sharp at a glance but blunt seeming and graceless at this scope, to cut haggardly and raggedly at the tiny paper fleck that I held in place with a thin piece of steel. After several attempts to diminish further that minuscule piece of paper, I gave up my efforts. Chop up something into half long enough it retains the illusion of shrinking into nothingness… when the opposite is true. A conundrum of scale. Is there such a thing as a smallest possible? Is the world composed like the wooden building blocks my young self played with, to be placed into different arrangements by a divine hand with a plan, perhaps, or the whims of absolute chance? Such questions puzzle me, and fill my spine with a chill, at the blatant lack of knowledge we men exhibit of the world our very essences exist within.
we leak radiation. our cells are constantly regenerating. we tend to remain in one approximate location for a good amount of time. Perhaps hauntings are just non-baryonic memories of us, the residue of our subatomic matter that has congealed and collected in the quantum foam in a specific locale, ghosts of an event. perhaps that is why some places have a feel of presence…
I don’t know what it s like to be three; I only remember a photograph
because the earliest eyepatches were rags stuffed inside charred and bloody eye sockets. these rags were already filthy to start with, and bloated by blood and ash it naturally darkens. in the wash of naphtha bar-light filtered, through an atmosphere of tobacco smoke and eye-watering blear of ethanol fumes, the abode of the absconded organ is dark as dark can be. its ocular neighbor glitters in the pathetic light
Flagrantly fragrant, the vagrant stumbles out of the perfume parlour reeking of Mi Amour.
superstition doesnt have such a large role these days as they did in the past. colors had more definitions than names. symbols actually defined some obscure meaning, rather than the relief on wallpaper patterns. it is difficult to tell now because a lot of references and terms are being obscured by modern pop culture’s jive. take disney. ask a child about the story of aladdin, and chances are they ll pipe up an explanation of the movie. the now is slowing smudging the million yesterdays of human memory into bleary obscurity
imaginary? i d argue that s sketchy. one cant completely understand the umwelt of another living being; a sort of solipsism is in action, and if an “imaginary” being (to you and me) is present, it is incontrovertibly and inconceivably real to the recipient.
A woman is like a much beloved river; take the time to navigate her eddying length, through her many changeable depths, and one soon charts a reasonably safe course.
smile and the world smiles with you. fart and the world frowns at you.
8 Year Old Guitar Hero
YouTube.com Responses & Comments:
longhorn187 (12 hours ago) you can see if u watch close the controller isnt even plugged in. de de de. it looks like its plugged into the fish tank. de de de
earthan (11 hours ago) Oh, also, if you start watching at 00:52 and follow the controller cord from the PS2 on the floor, you’ll note that it does in fact lead to the guitar controller in the kid’s hand. It’s looking more and more real to me.
In addition, you can hear how many notes he doesn’t hit. Why fake something without faking it perfectly.
If it’s real, it’s DAMN impressive.
wookins1 (11 hours ago)What I think is funny is that half of you guys worship this child and the other half want to murder him. All this over a video game. (I play video games too, don’t persecute me for the aforementioned video game comment.)
Living in civilization, one forgets the Earth is an alien planet. I highly recommend this show. When my wallet is sufficiently fat, you can bet that DVD set is going into my collection.
Somewhere in the Americas, there is a darkly green place where the flora are large and the fauna is miniature. The Pudu is the smallest species of deer, tall at the height of a human two-year old. For some reason this bugger reminds me of Pan, sans the human portion and the pipes. Small, with antlers that peer out its skull, it is ever vigilant for predators. One of ‘em is the Kod Kod, a feline hunter with savage grace which is hard to take seriously because of its strong resemblance to a month-old kitten. One expects it to start rumbling with a purr and engage in some exuberant mischief. Weighing at five pounds, it’s the smallest cat in the Americas.
Somewhere on the planet (I manage to make my absence from the television just long enough to miss the location) there is a warren of caves, etched into existence by acidic river water that boils deep into intestinal darkness. In this cave there is a 300 foot high pile of guano that teems with a substrate of cockroaches. As wrinkle-lipped bats squirm on the cold stone above, the roaches feast on shit. Sometimes an unfortunate bat falls (Here’s a Darwin Award) and splats in the hill of guano. It struggles to take flight, but the shit is too heavy, too caked. Hissing, the roaches converge, and soon there is nothing left but a flimsy ribcage. At certain times of the day, the cave mouth vomits forth streamers of wrinkle-lip bats that whirl into a torus in the sky. This is to confuse predators, but naturally, as is true for all defenses, there is never a 100% percent guarantee that the cave will welcome the same number of bats that left. The donut-shape unravels as the knuppels shoal together near the horizon to form weird shapes, ribbons of dark noise that twist with the wind. Peregrines and falcons weave in and out like fighter craft. The scene is a kaleidoscope of motion, a collision of worlds: insect, mammal, bird.
A lizard is bisected at the torso into two shades: its head is shingled with orange scale and its lower half is a brilliant blue. It has a tendency to flatten itself and walk around with its belly twisted to the side. It lives in the Gobi desert, in a special place where a thin streamer of liquid water cuts the desolate heat. This area has the largest known concentration of lizards in the world. They sun on the hot rock, waiting for the black flies to boil out of the water to wave squiggles in the air. These lizards, they’re good jumpers. Watching this scene is like taking the time to observe a pan of hot oil and popcorn kernels, without the frenzied finale. A consistently constant reptilian pop, pop, pop!
Redwoods five fucking thousand years old. A fledgling owl, answering the siren call of the Compass Winds, jumps from its perch to crash from branch to branch until it thumps on fertile soil; it picks itself up and climbs back up to try once more. Vampire squids that waver bio-luminescent in crushing water. Underwater chimneys that spume tremendous heat and, each an oasis of life in the bleak pressures, houses a veritable swarm of species.
The Science Channel: The Planet Earth!
