23 March 2005

I am no Icarus; I crave not your Sun.

What the hell is wrong with me?
Awake for 26 hours or more, I managed to sleep for all of five. If even that.
Yet when I awoke, I set down and wrote this in a single sitting:

Endeavour


I remember the stories that my mother told
Of dangerous desert creatures; their dread sight
Remembered ‘round the campfires late at night
Of the great Fyros warriors, mighty and bold

Of Pyr! O Mighty City! Tireless walls and ramparts
Home to the noble Fyros that wield fire and steel
The Emperor's wondrous palace; fine sparkling jewel!
Fortress of the desert, shielding courageous hearts

So powerful the tales, so memorable the words
That my dreams were short-sighted; far too meager
To be great as the Fyros of legends, Yes! I am eager
To be remembered in songs that shame the birds!

Much have I leaned, and so much sweat
Great friendships were made; so many were kind
Fine advice they gave; my wounds they did bind
These trials are long, but I cannot forget

That my heart is yearning, awaiting the day
When the energy I feel and the Kami consult
Fiery desert I shall scour, and the Dragon hunt
I will yet be with you, Mighty Pyr, so far away

For long shall I toil, and ever strive;
Ever stronger become, and thirst for the day
This journey is complete, and I proudly say:
O Majestic Pyr; I have arrived!


Wow.
Then, I was responding to something else on the message boards, and I threw this down;


(I was working nights; the days just melt together. The sun comes and goes as always, never pausing to ponder the name affixed to its journey.)
Where does all this come from? Is it lingering in my subconscious from some half-remembered poem?
And yet, when I get up to attend the head, I unwittingly punt the 2-liter bottle of Pepsi that nurtures me. Great, Karl, just great. Since when was I deficient in the Froth group?

This is not news, but neither have I mentioned it (that I can remember).
I shall not be taking the 425 to the machine shop this year. Nothing has changed except possibly the gravity that I assign to issues of personal finance, which shall not be addessed in this medium. I shall continue dissasembly and cleaning. Rebuilding the 2v carb will barely be a rainy afternoon's worth of distraction. Possibly I may rebuild the starter, since I've had nothing but trouble when it came to replacements for my beloved Soylent. Body issues on the Mission will be paramount importance. Particularly since I went to the trouble of replacing the trunk weatherstrip only to find that the real problem was a leaking back window. That's almost definitely going to be cancerous.

More fuss and fume to that. I cannot weld. I have never brazed. I am unwilling to perpetrate a partial rectum fix which will only need to be corrected later. Nor am I inclined to make use of any patch material that is not structurally useful. I only used a resin patch on the rear quarter last year because I beleived it was helpful to contain the cancer for the interim. I may, however, have sealed IN water leaking through the rear window.

And now on to the bashing....

EDIT
After further review, regarding how to write from a woman's perspective. A much more terrible pun would be:
"What literary tool shall I snatch from my box."
Ah. The power of lewd thinking.
/EDIT

1 comment:

conv442 said...

Recall that Sammy Cooleridge penned all of Xanadu in one sitting after waking from a drug induced doze....or at least all that he bothered to pen since he left us hanging......strung out as it were over the "Sacred River Alph"......