in view of the beast

this little bit is inspired by several things. the first is probably liam neeson's most recent film, 'the grey', which i didn't get to see in the theater, but instead watched it at home. the ending knocked my socks off. the rest of my family hated it, because it is somewhat ambiguous and a little undefined as to what actually happens. it's somewhat hemingway in nature, and that is largely the reason i loved it so much. they used a poem in the film a couple times, that really states the entire point of the story. it is as follows:

once more into the fray...

into the last good fight i'll ever know.

live and die on this day...

live and die on this day...

absolutely beautiful. now, in this fine film, mr. neeson's character is forced to put off his humanity, especially at the end, abandoned and alone, left to his own devices to face a wild, merciless, territorial animal that wants nothing more than his blood. for this reason, he is forced, as i said, to lay aside his humanity, to silence compassion, to quiet the beauty of nature, and face it's ferocity, not as a man, but as the animal within himself that civilization has silenced and put down. armed with a knife and some broken glass, he charges the wolf.

another film also played a bit of a role in this. it's called the dark knight rises, the latest installment in the batman franchise and the last to be directed by christopher nolan. his interpretation of batman has been nothing short of amazing, but even more impressive to me have been the villains. scarecrow and ra's al ghul were incredible, joker was unspeakably amazing, and the most recent villain, bane, was an absolute animal. my personal fitness goals entail achieving the physique that tom hardy was able to build in preparation for this role, and his portrayal of the character was just as hardened and defined as the body he sculpted for it. 

a third inspiration is vincent van gogh. this month is the anniversary of his suicide, and his reasons for carrying out his own death play heavily into what i was thinking when i wrote this. he was depressed, despised, and rejected, despite the beauty he created. he could have resolved this in many ways, but the one he chose sealed his work and his name as one who gave the ultimate gift to humanity: solace. 

finally, as with all writing, some of it has to come from the mind and life of the author. and so some has, but i don't care to detail that too deeply. rather i will just say that i found the classic fairy tale 'the beauty and the beast' was the best avenue to express this, and so i wrote a snippet of the beast's point of view of how the whole tail unfolded. i have thought up the preceding statements and the conclusion, but have not yet written them, so this is somewhat incomplete, but i don't really care. these were the ideas i most wanted to explore and put down in word today. whether or not i write the rest is up to me and whether or not i have the emotional drive to do so. so, with the explanation done and over, here is 'in view of the beast.'

For years, I lived with the belief that my anger, my face, my form, and all the hideousness the witch had given me were something of which I should be repulsed, something of which I should be ashamed and try to change, to go back to the regular form of man that I had once been. I tried to change my behavior, to become what I supposed the witch had meant by “a better man.” I read the largest volumes on the nature of man, on the virtues by which a man could supposedly reach his best form. Day by day, I practiced, as best I could, the civilities and the etiquette of men. Day by day, I failed. I tried to ignore the beastly appetites brought on by my transformation, and those vices the witch had told me made me deserving of this cold and hardened curse. Day by day, I failed. The appetites could not be silenced. The vices were engrained, not only as habits, but as eternal flaws in the fabric of my soul. I despaired. I could not change. I determined the best solution was to end my life, and kill the beast I had become.

But on the eve I had designed to carry out this deed, I woke, and when I woke, the delusion was gone, and this beast that I beheld in the mirror was no longer something that I should fear; it was no longer a weakness or a deformity. It was power; raw, formidable, terrifying power. Beneath the haggard appearance and the repulsive characteristics was a body large, powerful, and muscular, with claws and fangs with which to tear. I came to the realization that this was no curse, but a gift the witch had given me. A gift with which I could strike fear into the hearts of the bravest men, and in their state of fear, with their courage broken, I could then break them, bone by bone, and tear the very flesh of their form; I could make them as hideous as I, make them beg for death, and then, with a quiet calm, unleash with violent fury all the anger and hatred and malevolence I had for men, and say, “No.”

the russian olive

this is a little bit of word painting here, trying to bring an object to life through words. i wrote it at work back in early summer while i was out rolling pipe and took notice of two kinds of trees that grow along the creek there. one is the siberian elm and the other is the russian olive, both non-native, very invasive species of tree. i was gonna do a comparison of the two, but mostly just stuck with the olive. might do the elm one day though.

the russian olive is a delicate tree, and beautiful too. they can - but rarely do - grow tall, as wild trees do, but as they are wild, they are always lacking in orderly form or good grooming. they sometimes look like a haphazardly gathered bunch of sticks jumbled among twigs stood on end, and other times like a wet, huddled dog, crouching low to the ground in fear. so it is not the form of the tree that i appreciate, but the colors and the finer details that can only be seen on close inspection; by getting close enough to see the real heart of the tree. among it's colors, one finds in the leaves a soft, creamy, ivory-green rather than the true olive-green of the fruits of spain. the bark near the base is a dark, muddied brown, like the dirt in which it makes its home, but as the limbs climb higher in their straggled, mangled form, they take on first a deep and finally a brilliant red, like amber dissolved in burgundy wine, and splashed upon the canvas that is the bark. upon the limbs, the delicate leaves seem to be barely attached, like a grasshopper grasping a blade of grass, always seeming as if the thing to which it attaches itself is never secure enough to support its weight. but for all its beauty, the helpless russian olive is nonetheless a weed, and grows wildly out of control; so it is most usually uprooted at first sight by knowing property owners.

yeah. i think it needs more, and i'm not sure that it's very useful as is, but i kinda like it.

a halloween poem

i wasn't entirely sure what kind of a direction i wanted to take when i started writing this...i was feeling pretty inspired by the change in the weather and in the leaves, and figured i'd throw something together. so the first stanza is kinda...not the same as the rest of the poem, and from the second stanza on i went back to the usual approximately 5 beat pattern most poetry uses. part of me thinks i need to change it to conform with the rest of the poem, but at the same time, i think it kinda adds some cut to the way the words roll out. anyway yeah. good times and good business.

it has a little bit of some elements from dia de los muertos, or day of the dead, which is a mexican holiday comparable to memorial day, but celebrated at the same time as halloween, and uses the kind of imagery that halloween does. of course i also had to throw in a shout out to my homie poe.

The sudden ev’ning chill

Of fall

Comes quickly as it

Ever does

And the canyon winds come

Blowing

To warn all that night is

Coming.

I walk quietly along

In thought as if a spectre;

Mem’ry’s sullen song,

Sharp stabbing pains reflecting.

Beneath my feet the red, the

Orange and yellowed leaves,

From highest limbs fall dead.

Summer’s fall they do bereave.

The wind picks up in

Painful, dreadful, wailing moan

As if the earth in sin

To her dreary grave did go.

No coat to stop the cold,

In seeking tender warmth,

My own chatt’ring frame I hold;

Oh, if I could but touch her heart…

But that dark death,

The grim and blackened reaper,

Has in merc’less stealth

Sought from my grasp to keep her.

I see her loving eyes

I feel the softness of her hair;

A fool for life’s cold lies

Dark death has left me bare.

The last embers of day

Give way to chilling darkness

As they slowly, surely fade,

The moon her stage-call hearkens.

Through creeping, sneaking clouds

O’er low and huddled hills

In eerie silent sound

Her naked light revealed.

I descend into the town

Where once our burning love

Did in fruitfulness abound

As if nurtured from above.

Here life continues on,

Fearsome, ghastly shapes I see,

As children run in song

A trick for a treat on All Hallows Eve.

Down through the darkened streets

I wander through a haze

These children seeking sweets

And the lanterns all ablaze;

These people in their costumes

Taking joy in deepest fears,

I ask ‘What if they only knew?’

Death’s reality springs bitter tears.

I journey toward the lane

On which my home is built,

And my mem’ry like a flame

The hollow walls with brightness fills.

I recall a roaring fire

And pumpkins’ carven faces

By my own hand trembling, tired,

To bring light to shadowed places.

Their ghoulish forms contorted,

We carried them outside

And placed them on the porches;

Small lit candles gave them life.

And from their perch they’d watch

To keep dark spirits from this haven,

As we frightful stories taught,

Of wolves, dark lords, and ravens.

I turn in lamenting sorrow

Now down the lane again

No joy I find to borrow

The lanterns light the way.

Lined along the streets,

With fearsome faces glowing

They keep the ghosts upon their feet,

Down eternal rivers rowing.

I leave this place of sadness,

And go on to darker roads,

Lest I descend into a madness

And destroy my old abode.

But on to quiet gardens

On silent solitary knolls,

There stand stones of the departed,

Here rest the lonesome souls.

I hear a howling in the distance

The wolf’s cry gives me a shiver

His love kindled in an instant

From the moon’s cold spell he’ll never be delivered.

And there upon a barren tree,

Near the blackened iron gate,

A stately raven that I see

‘Nevermore,’ he quoth my fate.

Forward through a narrow path,

Lined on each side by graves,

A colder chill this dark place hath,

Than all others which I’ve strayed.

At last I see that somber stone

For which I’ve come to see

Believing she is surely gone

And long forgotten me.

But on that stone I see a pumpkin

Its flick’ring face by candle glows,

And a painted vase, which, there within

Rests a bloody scarlet velvet rose.

A bony smile splits my head

Of me a mem’ry she has saved,

For it is not her tis dead,

But I who call this bed my grave.

So now I feel the warmth return

And within a beating seems;

I make the dirt my quilted urn

And return to deathly dreams.

I can taste the moon so sweet,

I fly freely through the stars,

The dark world ‘neath my feet,

And a song within my rotten heart.

So to the living now I sing,

These ancient words so true

Do not fear the death bells’ ring

When they come to ring for you.

Let life be full of love, of

Many sad and happy things,

Till you join us here above,

Have a happy Halloween.

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this is my writing blog. i probably won't get to it often, but here it is.