Upon the Horizon

The day has dawned in the east, and still I lay unmoved from my nocturnal prostration. Unroused remain my passions and fervor for life. Heed not does my consciousness to the crowing of yonder cock. Energy sapped, lifesong unsung. What once was readiness and anticipation for a new day, now is buried deep in my bosom, mutilated by a winter's stoning, pulverized by some academic mallet.
It is the ninth week. Seven days shy of the week of death and calamity. Half a moon cycle from the ultimate judgment. The falcon of final examinations is high above folding it's wings in preparation for it's speedy dive upon the young fowl in careless flight, with the end goal of breaking it's feathered neck. Beware of the falcon, it's beak is like iron and it's accuracy unparalleled.

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. ~ Lawrence Durrell (1912-90)

RRROOAAAMM and WOOOSSSCH is right!


A Haiku:
In morning rays shine,
colors form thoughts from without,
the skin, it glistens.

Chapter One

Chapter One: "Oh Petey, so seemingly strong and brave. I guess it took a silly little thing like a dance to show us what a coward you actually are."

You were a member of every club on campus. You were the head of your fraternity. You graced the cover of the Barometer numerous times, your eyes shining like the sun, and your biceps flexed casually. On sunny days we would see you, playing frisbee golf in the quad, laughing harmlessly at your own witticisms.

Your mirth was a beacon of hope for all the students who stood listlessly on the outskirts of popularity. You were a nice guy - maybe one day you would notice their meaningless existence and reach out to bring them some kernal of joy. If you only knew how many miserable nights they would stay awake, playing endless games of "Magic," not knowing that life was passing them by.

Little did we know that you would soon become the apogee of the college experience. LIttle did we know that your status was fraudulent. You were just a jerk, weren't you?

But I am getting ahead of myself. In order to realize your spectatcular rise and fall, we must rember back to a little day I like to call "November 2nd, 2003." Oh, Petey, do you remember the myriad of glances we exchanged that delightful day in the animal shelter?...

To be Continued.

(Names have been changed to protect privacy).

Just Call Me Sally

After perusing the delightful commentary of my distinguished colleagues and fellow literary inamoratas, I felt none too eager to compose my much anticipated first entry. An expressed angst of a similar breed, previously mentioned by Nicholas, has hitherto been dubbed unfounded and perhaps the same luxury will be granted my nerves. And when I say perhaps, I mean, "if you jokesters fail to praise my elevated diction and highly innovative style I think I might die." That said, I'll now attempt a short story meant to leave a sensation of pleasure and saitsfaction in the very depths of your plaque filled arteries.

"School's out for the summer!" Susie yelled, running down senior hall with a grin as big as a bus on her lily white face. "You shouldn't try to tell jokes
if you're too stupid to do it right," I cooly retorted after punching her lights out. Cold as a wet brick she sunk to the floor. I knew full well she
hadn't heard my clever quip, but I didn't really care. I calmly stepped over the pool of blood now growing rapidly under the head of the unconscious victim.

Someone slapped me five and someone else slapped my butt. "You've done us proud," shouted a raspy voice from the newly formed crowd as I fought to supress the smile that begged to be shown on my face. Without another word, I slowly sauntered away, the shouts of the crowd weakening as I went. Turning the corner at the end of the hall, I broke into a run...and a sweat consequently. Running through the band room I dared not stop to grab my flute from the instrument room. "One day without practicing isn't going to end the world," I reassured myself, though I didn't believe it at all. Down the stairs, out the cafeteria doors, and into the parking lot I ran. Realizing my car was in its senior spot, quite artistically painted I might add, on the other side of the building, I turned to surge up the hill.

I was nearly halfway up that stupid hill, when I stopped and yelled out, addressing myself of course, "What the hell am I doing?"

"What the hell haven't you done?" I heard a voice calmly say. I turned to see the voice had come from Officer Dirk and he looked none too happy. I walked over to him and blankly stared ahead of me. He slapped the cuffs on without a trace of resistance from myself. Ducking my head into the back seat of the squad car was satisfying in a strangely familiar way, and I let out a laugh. I was going home, I thought, and boy was I glad.

One out of Four College Textbooks Becomes the Victim of a Bibliophile every Minute (Statistics for the Liar, V. 77, June 32, 1834)

...but only one in 7 indecent assaults is reported.

Question 1: What book would you like to read?

Question 2: When should we read it?

Question 3: Why do men have nipples?

We need a quorum of at least three members according to the by-laws (Section III.b) regarding these issues. Please, post suggestions and/or votes in the comments section.

Note: The Quiet American, by Graham Greene has been suggested. Other suggestions would be appreciated.

Best,

The Honorable Rev. Dr. Joel A.K. III esquire ThD ThM PhD etc. etc. etc.

Ye Fellow Knaves

In keeping with the times and fashion, I now offer my own maiden post. I am rather reluctant, however, to submit my work to this forum. This apprehension is undoubtedly due to a slight worry that my work might seem trite and inferior in comparison to the work of the other, already renowned contributors. But, I must forge on and bring my voice to the public, lest any ability and imagination that I may possess rot like a leprous appendage.
I assure you all that the book club and the so aptly named web log will strive to foster a well rounded, friendly environment to those artists who desire to become familiar with works of classic literature and western thought. We, the administration, desire Into the Friscalating Dusklight to be your outlet of creative prose and verse. All are welcomed and strongly encouraged to post whatever thoughts or ideas spring to mind.
I bid you adieu.

Edward Appleby
Vice Provost of Internal Affairs
and
Chief of Security

Mimsy Were the Borogoves...and the Momewraths!

I quoth Machiavelli:

...the gulf between how one should live and how one does live is so wide that a man who neglects what is actually done for what should be done learns the way to self-destruction rather than self-preservation.

The idealist is doomed, says Niccolo, and yet I pine for ideals. For instance, what is the ideal, the foremost, the summum bonum of literary works for which my time can be dovoted in this noble effort we call the book club. The ideal book, as our resident poet extraordinaire has explained, must lift us to great heights, both mentally and emotionally - not to create in man a dichotomy, of course. The ideal book for the book club must be a classic, it must be short (we are scholars of other disciplines with limited time), and it must be like delightful candy - sweet, and creating in the reader a sense of joy, mirth, and wanton pleasure. When we are done, we will all rejoice and make merry having been stuffed to the rafters which such goodness.

Perhaps, Graham Greene's The Quiet American


One reviewer summarized: "Fowler (the main character) is a perfect Graham Greene protagonist--the man who has no particular moral, religious or political beliefs who finds himself perched on a moral precipice--with moral redemption on one side and the moral abyss on the other."

What book says you?

An Ode to Books

Oh blessed pages that smell so musky and ancient!
Oh charming letters that form words that are etched eternally on my heart!

You take me deep into the ocean of emotion,
And fill my eyes with tears overflowing.
I am now a sailor, now an author, now a mother, now a warrior –
All these roles I can experience as I peruse your tinted pages.
I am now a jilted lover, a homeless wanderer, a ghost –
Thanks to your story I can be all these things.

But tell me why, oh Source of all Wisdom,
Why can I not stay forever bound by your spell?
Cruel Reality breaks my bones as it pulls me back from your arms.
Crushed once, and crushed again –
I am battered and broken from the spiteful joy you take
In ruining my peaceful reverie.
Curse you, Reality, the bane of my purity and joy!
Curse you, Homework, Phonecalls, and Chores:
I hate you for the havoc you wreak upon my virginal peace!

But the eternal cycle moves swiftly on,
Taking me to the height of pure emotion, and then pulling me back down to the miry pit of life.

We do not condone dogfighting...unless said dogs are ugly.

First Post EVER!!!!

Holy Crap!!!! This is the first post on "IntoTheFriscalatingDusklight," bar-none the greatest blog of the most sophisticated and postmodern book club in the history of this race we genially call mankind (no offense to the females, of course, who make life worth the livin').

I ask you one thing as we begin this journey together, "Is Latin dead?" For if we answer in the affirmative, who are we? And who are you? Odds are, you can't even read, you lowlife! Who are you to question a beautiful language?


"The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. 'Vamanos, amigos,' he whispered, and threw the busted leather flintcraw over the loose weave of the saddlecock. And they rode on into the friscalating dusklight." ~ Our beloved Eli Cash