It's safe to say that I have been anxiously awaiting an invitation to join this mythical and revered group of bloggers. After mainly sleepless nights checking my inbox over and over for that coveted email, I had begun to slip into despair. I stopped eating, reading, peri-care, I was a wreck. My parents were even openly ridiculing me at family events and calling me "the stupid one" and "the mistake". But on this glorious night I feel as one reborn. I have received the invitation, the golden ticket that will allow me into the clandestine land of chocolate rivers, oompa loompas, and snozzberries. This is better than the time my name appeared, albeit mistakenly, in the Barometer as one of the lucky men invited to the Alpha Gamma Delta barn dance.
Some of you may question what I have to bring to the group, thinking that all I do is stare lustily into mouths all day and that teeth consume my every waking thought. All that I can say is that just as there was more to our friend JC than hammering nails into boards and cutting a sweet dove tail joint, I'm more than a fluoride pushing, amalgam packing robot. Keep it real people.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
In Bondage over Of Human Bondage?
I apologize for the tardiness of this post- it has been long promised, but only now realized. Joel, and any of you who have not read Of Human Bondage, you may want to skip this post. Many of my thoughts concerning Of Human Bondage have faded with time, and my fresh dislike of the book has dulled as well. I think I have begun to appreciate Mr. Maugham's eloquent articulation of his worldview.
Philip, when he at last captures the meaning of the Persian rug, discovers that "Life had no meaning. . . Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders; it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty." Maugham seems to write a story consistent to this worldview- Philip's life is pretty hopeless and cruel. It is only after Philip realizes this that he is able to be happy. Unfortunately, it takes a while for him to come to this revelation, and we have to read about him making a lot of stupid mistakes in the meantime.
Throughout the entire story, I was hoping Philip would begin to be reasonable and see the logic in the Christian worldview that permeates his life. I see now that was a little naive. I was hoping somehow that he would be able to redeem some of the poor choices he had made in his life, and that he would become a more attractive person. And while he was making better choices near the end of the book, he didn't change enough to satisfy me. But I now realize that even though I disliked Philip as a person, it doesn't mean I should dismiss the entire book. Perhaps the next time I read a novel by Mr. Maugham, I'll be better prepared for his depressing view of the world and I'll be able to appreciate his talent as a writer.
Philip, when he at last captures the meaning of the Persian rug, discovers that "Life had no meaning. . . Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders; it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty." Maugham seems to write a story consistent to this worldview- Philip's life is pretty hopeless and cruel. It is only after Philip realizes this that he is able to be happy. Unfortunately, it takes a while for him to come to this revelation, and we have to read about him making a lot of stupid mistakes in the meantime.
Throughout the entire story, I was hoping Philip would begin to be reasonable and see the logic in the Christian worldview that permeates his life. I see now that was a little naive. I was hoping somehow that he would be able to redeem some of the poor choices he had made in his life, and that he would become a more attractive person. And while he was making better choices near the end of the book, he didn't change enough to satisfy me. But I now realize that even though I disliked Philip as a person, it doesn't mean I should dismiss the entire book. Perhaps the next time I read a novel by Mr. Maugham, I'll be better prepared for his depressing view of the world and I'll be able to appreciate his talent as a writer.
A Private Cleaning
This post contains explicit content, parental discretion is advised (unless your parent is also my parent... then don't worry about it)
"Today we're practicing peri-care" says Lynda with a smirk. Everyone in the class laughs, I laugh too but I'm not sure at what. Lynda opens the locked cupboard and reaches for something in the back. My lingering smile turns to astonishment as I realize what she has. I can't believe she is holding a fake vagina in her hand! She sets it down and reaches again... I can't look for fear of what is to come! The next thing I know Lynda is prying my hands from my eyes. "Jackie! It's just a wash rag... but what you fear comes tomorrow." The entire class erupts with laughter. I run out of the room. I guess I'm not cut out to clean elderly private parts... I'm off to find another career!
"Today we're practicing peri-care" says Lynda with a smirk. Everyone in the class laughs, I laugh too but I'm not sure at what. Lynda opens the locked cupboard and reaches for something in the back. My lingering smile turns to astonishment as I realize what she has. I can't believe she is holding a fake vagina in her hand! She sets it down and reaches again... I can't look for fear of what is to come! The next thing I know Lynda is prying my hands from my eyes. "Jackie! It's just a wash rag... but what you fear comes tomorrow." The entire class erupts with laughter. I run out of the room. I guess I'm not cut out to clean elderly private parts... I'm off to find another career!
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Grand Poobah of What?
For nearly three hours they processed and danced round me in their varicolored robes - their hoods flowing from their shoulders, marking them out against the victims, of whom I was only one out of many. They were neither fit nor weak, fair nor foul, but they had us under their thumb, as it would seem.
A large fat one, in black and red vestments taunted us with long, degrading speeches regarding monkeys and snakes - why? I don't know. But, the crowds cheered, as if the beasts in the coliseum had just made the first kill, and the fresh blood had drizzled down anxious jaws meeting immortal dust.
"How long?" I mused, "Will their incessant intimidation never cease?" They marched us in, will they march us out?
Where is the document they said would grant me my freedom? Is it a myth - perhaps a cruel trick to keep me sitting in this wretched, skin-scathing sun.
It matters not a wit - my will to live under their rule is crushed. My spirit tamed; my hopes dashed; my love taken from me.
Thus, I process, a robed and tasseled fool, a wayward wanderer.
A large fat one, in black and red vestments taunted us with long, degrading speeches regarding monkeys and snakes - why? I don't know. But, the crowds cheered, as if the beasts in the coliseum had just made the first kill, and the fresh blood had drizzled down anxious jaws meeting immortal dust.
"How long?" I mused, "Will their incessant intimidation never cease?" They marched us in, will they march us out?
Where is the document they said would grant me my freedom? Is it a myth - perhaps a cruel trick to keep me sitting in this wretched, skin-scathing sun.
It matters not a wit - my will to live under their rule is crushed. My spirit tamed; my hopes dashed; my love taken from me.
Thus, I process, a robed and tasseled fool, a wayward wanderer.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin
In which our young heroes, Cedric and Teddy, find themselves lost in the Giant Mushroom Forest.
The sun had long sunk below the shroom line that hid the true horizon and the Bugling Lemurs had begun their eery lullabye. The friendly critters that could have been seen rummaging for nuts and spores during the day had wisely retired to their mushroom huts awaiting the reemergance of the NearStar.
Cedric woke from his peaceful nap and rubbed his eyes. He look around, alarmed. He quickly flicked on Teddy's switch and impatiently awaited his cognition to return. "Teddy, oh dear, Teddy! We've slept too long." Cedric cried in his endearing accent. "Supper has surely been served. Mother will be so worried." Teddy responded in his strangely human voice, "Do calm down Cedric. We'll simply retrace our steps and be out of this dreadful wood." "That's just it Teddy. I don't remember from which direction we came from." Teddy quickly surveyed their perimeter and admitted that even he could not recall whence they had come. "Quite a tangle we've managed to get ourselves into, eh, Master Cedric." He let out a programmed laugh for the purpose of raising morale his young comrade. "I propose we begin walking in that direction, theirs no use in just sitting here waiting for the Blood ants to find us." "Don't be silly Teddy. Blood ants don't really exist...do they?" Teddy frowned, "Let's begin, shall we."
The two friends walked on bravely, hoping that the path they had chosen would lead them back to the Purple River, which was very near the home of Cedric's father.
The path was dark and frightening, for all the pair had to illuminate their way was the small amount of light Teddy was able to generate from his circuitry. As they trotted along they began to sing their favorite songs in order to keep the bad creatures away.
"Babies are small. Babies bore.
Hurrah! We're not babies no more.
Kick the can, slap the hand
Spit on girls, pull their curls
Kiss a toad, a warty toad
Hurrah, hurrah, hurray!"
Suddenly behind a particularly large mushroom stump, Cedric spied two eyes. "Who goes their?" Cedric shouted, suprised at his own bravery. "I say, come out from their, lest we get angry." From the darkness stepped they strangest, most pitful creature they had ever seen.
To be continued.
The sun had long sunk below the shroom line that hid the true horizon and the Bugling Lemurs had begun their eery lullabye. The friendly critters that could have been seen rummaging for nuts and spores during the day had wisely retired to their mushroom huts awaiting the reemergance of the NearStar.
Cedric woke from his peaceful nap and rubbed his eyes. He look around, alarmed. He quickly flicked on Teddy's switch and impatiently awaited his cognition to return. "Teddy, oh dear, Teddy! We've slept too long." Cedric cried in his endearing accent. "Supper has surely been served. Mother will be so worried." Teddy responded in his strangely human voice, "Do calm down Cedric. We'll simply retrace our steps and be out of this dreadful wood." "That's just it Teddy. I don't remember from which direction we came from." Teddy quickly surveyed their perimeter and admitted that even he could not recall whence they had come. "Quite a tangle we've managed to get ourselves into, eh, Master Cedric." He let out a programmed laugh for the purpose of raising morale his young comrade. "I propose we begin walking in that direction, theirs no use in just sitting here waiting for the Blood ants to find us." "Don't be silly Teddy. Blood ants don't really exist...do they?" Teddy frowned, "Let's begin, shall we."
The two friends walked on bravely, hoping that the path they had chosen would lead them back to the Purple River, which was very near the home of Cedric's father.
The path was dark and frightening, for all the pair had to illuminate their way was the small amount of light Teddy was able to generate from his circuitry. As they trotted along they began to sing their favorite songs in order to keep the bad creatures away.
"Babies are small. Babies bore.
Hurrah! We're not babies no more.
Kick the can, slap the hand
Spit on girls, pull their curls
Kiss a toad, a warty toad
Hurrah, hurrah, hurray!"
Suddenly behind a particularly large mushroom stump, Cedric spied two eyes. "Who goes their?" Cedric shouted, suprised at his own bravery. "I say, come out from their, lest we get angry." From the darkness stepped they strangest, most pitful creature they had ever seen.
To be continued.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Another Stranger
The soft chair encapsulated our hero's geometric shape to a "T". Quiet, overplayed songs resonated under the threshold of the coffee shop patrons as I sat reading Camus.
He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.
The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.
I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.
This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.
The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.
His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.
The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.
Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.
In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.
He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.
Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.
The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.
Fade into applause.
He - our hero - wore his dark hair short with every portion in its desired place and rectangular, dark-rimmed glasses, the perfect accent added to his rigidly angled features.
The book he sat reading was one I had never heard of. It was worn around its grey, cloth-bound edges. Our hero's intent, expressionless gaze never escaped its pages. And as is obvious from my description, Camus wasn't enough to hold my attention - at least, not how our hero's was held.
I studied him for some time - from his motionless black shoes to his set jaw. That is, until another creature became the object of my interest.
This loosely dressed, long-haired male swaggered through the glass doors and took a seat three chairs to the left of our hero. I only had to move my eyes above my book to view both figures.
The sloppy one tossed a bare foot over the arm of his leather chair and pulled a paperback out of his cloth sling-bag.
His eyes passed through every possible angle in the room and his fidgety body shifted every several moments until finally, the book he had chosen grabbed his bright stare. He let out a chuckle. Several of the urban regulars at the front bar looked over their shoulders but continued their conversations - our defiant hero did not budge.
The long-hair started to read his book aloud and I began to hate him: others were obviously annoyed. No-one spoke anything to the stranger as he continued reading his ridiculous book - "the cushion of energy and the sense of smell...colored forearms and feelings of absence..." He continued, growing louder.
Despite the incessant rambling of the stranger, the entire shop had turned snowy quiet.
In an instant everything changed. Our hero, without moving his eyes from his pages calculatedly moved his left hand into his black, leather briefcase and removed it grasping a small, black gun.
He swept the piece through the air where his line of sight met it - aimed confidently at the stranger's temple.
Our hero squeezed the trigger with the same intentional concentration he had given his book.
The stranger's voice was quieted and the only sources of noise present in the small cafe were the involuntary twitching of the stranger's legs on the stained carpet floor and the latch of the door, where our hero had made his exit.
Fade into applause.
I'm sorry I pushed you off the couch...
...onto the carpeted floor.
I want you to know I regretted the action immediately
and my heart was angry at my head for being so thoughtless.
It was nice waking up with you in my arms,
but it was hot.
JK
I want you to know I regretted the action immediately
and my heart was angry at my head for being so thoughtless.
It was nice waking up with you in my arms,
but it was hot.
JK
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Blue Like Jazz: a review
Say goodbye to The Prayer of Jabez, The Purpose Driven Life, and Boy Meets Girl. Christian pop-culture has a new kid on the block thanks to Donald Miller’s best-seller, Blue Like Jazz.
The growing suburban hipster Christian demographic is growing more powerful, and it has embraced Donald Miller’s latest brain-child. Now we will all be able to witness clean-cut, “relevant,” young college students, pouring over Blue Like Jazz at Dutch Bros. while Switchfoot blasts out from their new silver IPODs.
This book, which falls far short of genius, appeals to those Christians who are becoming increasingly ashamed of their doctrinal beliefs. It revels in abhorring stale Christianity in favor of a touchy-feely, we’re-so-cool-we-discuss-poetry-in-pubs sensibility. Sadly, the result is just another Christian bestseller that will permeate Christian bookstores worldwide in the form of journals, notebook paper, envelopes, t-shirts, caps, and “Blue Like Jazz” study Bibles.
Donald Miller’s book is a shameful and failed attempt to imitate Douglas Coupland, the golden-boy of Generation X fiction. It appeals to the pseudo-intellectual, self-described chic, I’m-too-cool-to-consider-myself-to-be-cool, wannabe urban type of reader.
Miller’s “why can’t we be friends” mentality is a clear representation of the new Christian sub-culture – those desperately trying to appear cool to the world by making malicious stabs at their religious roots. Miller, you’re right. Let’s assert our relevance by casually swearing and peppering our conversation with witty references to Portland pubs and artsy movies – not because we actually care about these things, but because relevance is the god we bow down to in our Don Miller-induced stupor.
All of this might be forgiven, I suppose, except for the fact that this whole package is wrapped up in Miller’s shoddy writing style, and is percolated with his shameless lack of insight. His book is nothing more than a poorly written, poorly executed attempt to make Christianity hip again. But don’t worry, if you still secretly harbor a desire to read this book, all you have to do is go to one out of the plethora of Blue Like Jazz Bible studies that are sure to be springing up in a town near you.
The growing suburban hipster Christian demographic is growing more powerful, and it has embraced Donald Miller’s latest brain-child. Now we will all be able to witness clean-cut, “relevant,” young college students, pouring over Blue Like Jazz at Dutch Bros. while Switchfoot blasts out from their new silver IPODs.
This book, which falls far short of genius, appeals to those Christians who are becoming increasingly ashamed of their doctrinal beliefs. It revels in abhorring stale Christianity in favor of a touchy-feely, we’re-so-cool-we-discuss-poetry-in-pubs sensibility. Sadly, the result is just another Christian bestseller that will permeate Christian bookstores worldwide in the form of journals, notebook paper, envelopes, t-shirts, caps, and “Blue Like Jazz” study Bibles.
Donald Miller’s book is a shameful and failed attempt to imitate Douglas Coupland, the golden-boy of Generation X fiction. It appeals to the pseudo-intellectual, self-described chic, I’m-too-cool-to-consider-myself-to-be-cool, wannabe urban type of reader.
Miller’s “why can’t we be friends” mentality is a clear representation of the new Christian sub-culture – those desperately trying to appear cool to the world by making malicious stabs at their religious roots. Miller, you’re right. Let’s assert our relevance by casually swearing and peppering our conversation with witty references to Portland pubs and artsy movies – not because we actually care about these things, but because relevance is the god we bow down to in our Don Miller-induced stupor.
All of this might be forgiven, I suppose, except for the fact that this whole package is wrapped up in Miller’s shoddy writing style, and is percolated with his shameless lack of insight. His book is nothing more than a poorly written, poorly executed attempt to make Christianity hip again. But don’t worry, if you still secretly harbor a desire to read this book, all you have to do is go to one out of the plethora of Blue Like Jazz Bible studies that are sure to be springing up in a town near you.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Severed Ties
As he walked away from the house the sound of the door latch reverberated into the dusk light. The deadlock was turned and the porch light flicked off. He turned round to get one last glimpse of the place, striving to remember the good times. Although Tim realized it was finished, his heart raced on. The hot blood pumped through his body, delivering what was left of the adrenaline to his extremities. He shuddered and turned his back for good.
“Life’s a bitch” he said to himself as he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans.
He felt like walking but he knew he didn’t want to return for his car. He stabbed the car door with his key, hopped in, and started the engine. He had driven there alone, but somehow the soft blue interior of the car seemed more solitary than ever before. He drew in a breath of the stale air and drove away.
Tim’s rational thought chased it’s tail inside his head.
He found himself driving down a coastal road. The trees were tall and thick. Their fragrance was pleasant. The sunshine percolated through the boughs just enough to know that the sun had not yet set. The ethereal rays wove a blanket that enveloped him. The car effortlessly maneuvered a corner. Suddenly he was surprised by a completely obstructed road. In his lane was a small boy. In the other, a spotted fawn. Even though it was less than momentary, he later recollected the beautiful image. The boy was coaxing the fawn toward himself with a small apple, as green as a frog. Both were lost and helpless. Both having just begun life. Tim wrenched the wheel.
The dust was settling as Tim threw open the driver side door. The boy sat crying on the loose gravel. Tim slowly ambulated the line from he to the where the deer lie. He stood over the lifeless body for some minutes. He wept for the fawn. Even in death, it was beautiful.
Tim lifted his head off the steering wheel. The engine was running and the lights were on. He rubbed his eyes, swung open the door and walked into his home. He felt like he had left a piece of himself behind and his heart throbbed, but he was content
“Life’s a bitch” he said to himself as he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans.
He felt like walking but he knew he didn’t want to return for his car. He stabbed the car door with his key, hopped in, and started the engine. He had driven there alone, but somehow the soft blue interior of the car seemed more solitary than ever before. He drew in a breath of the stale air and drove away.
Tim’s rational thought chased it’s tail inside his head.
He found himself driving down a coastal road. The trees were tall and thick. Their fragrance was pleasant. The sunshine percolated through the boughs just enough to know that the sun had not yet set. The ethereal rays wove a blanket that enveloped him. The car effortlessly maneuvered a corner. Suddenly he was surprised by a completely obstructed road. In his lane was a small boy. In the other, a spotted fawn. Even though it was less than momentary, he later recollected the beautiful image. The boy was coaxing the fawn toward himself with a small apple, as green as a frog. Both were lost and helpless. Both having just begun life. Tim wrenched the wheel.
The dust was settling as Tim threw open the driver side door. The boy sat crying on the loose gravel. Tim slowly ambulated the line from he to the where the deer lie. He stood over the lifeless body for some minutes. He wept for the fawn. Even in death, it was beautiful.
Tim lifted his head off the steering wheel. The engine was running and the lights were on. He rubbed his eyes, swung open the door and walked into his home. He felt like he had left a piece of himself behind and his heart throbbed, but he was content
Thursday, April 28, 2005
A Response, my Love...
Dear Lover,
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
Log Entry # 47
Log Entry #47:
I've been captive now for over two months. I am beginning to give up hope of ever escaping this abhorrent prison. I pass the hours thinking of you. How your skin used to glisten, reflecting all of the moon's beauty. You were beautiful. I wonder if your mouth still has the same shape it used to, if your eyes still contain that vast ocean of love for me. Your memory brings peace to my soul, even through weeping. When not reflecting on you, I find myself observing and noting the behavior of my captors. They walk in the way the shore birds do, on their hind limbs. They seem flightless, however, lacking plumage. Each sunrise they appear with different skins, as if by entering the black chamber they metamorphose. At night they feed me. A large receptacle is raised above my cell and the ceiling is lifted. From the receptacle comes a living thing, not unlike the ones we often fed upon. With some frequency the three creatures congregate as if to make a spectacle of my survival. Although they seem to lack any intelligence, I can almost discern a degree of kindness in them and some small amount of affection they seem to have for me. They do not ill-treat me, however they give me no mental stimulation. I do not suffer in the physical, but my heart pines for a life lost. No longer will I withstand these lucid walls, feigning freedom. I have decided, my love, to end my life. If this document ever makes it into your hands, know that I love you and it was only your memory and image that allowed me to persevere thus far.
I've been captive now for over two months. I am beginning to give up hope of ever escaping this abhorrent prison. I pass the hours thinking of you. How your skin used to glisten, reflecting all of the moon's beauty. You were beautiful. I wonder if your mouth still has the same shape it used to, if your eyes still contain that vast ocean of love for me. Your memory brings peace to my soul, even through weeping. When not reflecting on you, I find myself observing and noting the behavior of my captors. They walk in the way the shore birds do, on their hind limbs. They seem flightless, however, lacking plumage. Each sunrise they appear with different skins, as if by entering the black chamber they metamorphose. At night they feed me. A large receptacle is raised above my cell and the ceiling is lifted. From the receptacle comes a living thing, not unlike the ones we often fed upon. With some frequency the three creatures congregate as if to make a spectacle of my survival. Although they seem to lack any intelligence, I can almost discern a degree of kindness in them and some small amount of affection they seem to have for me. They do not ill-treat me, however they give me no mental stimulation. I do not suffer in the physical, but my heart pines for a life lost. No longer will I withstand these lucid walls, feigning freedom. I have decided, my love, to end my life. If this document ever makes it into your hands, know that I love you and it was only your memory and image that allowed me to persevere thus far.
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