In The Words of the Emperor

The Howling

2007-03-08T19:00:26Z

At night, in the middle of curses and delayed essays, I fear for my life. Focusing on my writing unhinges the rest of my consciousness. I find the dreaded illusion of finishing soon, when the digital numbers change to two in the morning. My milky eyesight stares restlessly at the base of the word processor finding the page number. Weakened muscles curve my spine and dip my head closer to the keyboard. And yet I labour on like the miner fatigued and dizzied by the underground fumes.
When the zombie like rhythm of my work reaches a constant march through the paragraphs, I hear the cry that stops it all. My bones then feel like a tree branch in an ice storm. My foggy eyes regain their diurnal capacity. I check over my shoulder at the window of the studio. I stare at this transparent barrier, so weak it is and susceptible to the outside weather. From the outside this bellow barges through my crystal illusion of a wall.
The cry goes off again, and I recognize it in all its diabolical intensity. Decibels high and thin, penetrating me iron cold. The sound is sad and desperate, the terror of tortured innocence. That is the sound of a dozen babies crying! It is a cry for help loaded with warning, for why would babies cry at night and out side my door? Only some horrendous work could cause such a scene.
Minutes later, after enduring the tearing of my heart and the puncturing of my nerves, I walk toward the door. The screaming is intense, but the innocent need help. Though cold, I do not reach for a blanket, thinking it might become a liability in the event of a fight. In front of the door, hand on the knob, my wild imagination races through the possibilities. How can I confront the psycho engaged in such horrible deeds? What if I too become a victim? I gather the courage to open the door.
The otherwise calm night has a breeze that cleans my sidewalk of the fine coat of snow.. Through me ghostly breath, I recognize the silhouette of Nose Hill park. The shinning clouds covering the moon outline its curvy hills. At the top I find the culprit’s companions. Miniature dunes of snow are disturbed by the footprints of the culprit. I follow the footprints with my eyes. In front of my house I find him. Showing me its side, but turning its head to me, the coyote freezes me with its eyes. He utters his tortured baby howl.

Love, With a Taste for Coffee (Part 3)

2007-02-25T06:49:06Z

I inhabit the world of Spirits, that which Plato called the world of Ideas (how flattering of him, such a good sport). Krad, and people like you, populate the world of the Material. For reasons unknown to you and known to me only through lore, our worlds are entangled. You feel us; experience us in feelings and thought. We are consequential to your character, to your social life. Ours is a marriage unusual in nature, just like that of Coffee Maker and Krad.
Mrs. 3000 FA, our darling Coffee Maker, is a creature of both our worlds. She is the first of her kind, but I know what she is. Before Krad promised his love to her, the only tangible, inanimate objects that reached Coffee Maker’s level of spirituality were the story books read to children. Since the invention of print, and particularly since fantasies were put down on books, children have breathed into their stories a life familiar to us spirits. Only when kids bask in the possibility of making a Prince out of a frog or saving a princess with a kiss, does new life exist in Spirit World. It is always a joy when new, temporary sprites roam our world as they spring from a child’s head. They are lively like squirrels playing catch-the-nut, charming in the way baby mammals tend to be. These children-bred spirits are the animals of our world, and because of them we adore the kids who put their imaginations at full potential. But these sprites’ lives are as short as the lives of birds. To us immortal spirits, their existence is but the swift flight of a chickadee passing from tree to tree.
Imagine then how great it was when we saw Coffee Maker burn with life at the moment Krad promised eternal love. She lighted our world as strongly as she lighted Krad’s eyes. A new, more enduring sprite was born. Her coming to life was what brought Hope back into Cupid’s apartment. Hope’s bright eyes gave a drunken Cupid the smile he longed to have. Indeed, in spite of my wisdom and scepticism, Coffee Maker made me think of joyful new loves ahead.

Walking out of "Terabithia"

2007-02-22T05:26:33Z

Movies that stir an uncontrollable stew of emotions in me, are the ones I consider the best. I just came out of the theatre from watching "Bridge to Terabithia", choking up, but most importantly, I walked out of it with my mind racing on all directions.
The plot is simple enough. Jess, the main character, is a farm boy who encounters bullies on his way to and at school. They are everywhere! Obviously, Jess is a taciturn, moody kid from the 6th grade who wishes his way through the day. The environment in his family is not helpful at all. Though his parents a loving and his youngest sister, whom Jess shares a room with, is an adorable child, the household is barely making ends meet. Furthermore, Jess’s dad is too down to earth, too serious and too preoccupied with the reality of life. So he tries to transmit that seriousness onto Jess. For Jess, his only escape is the drawings he makes on a sketch book which are a hint to great artistic talent.
One day, an eccentric daughter of writers comes to Jess’s school and proves her worth. Not only that, she is also Jess’s new neighbour. School is as cruel to Leslie, the girl, as it is to Jess, which quickly binds the two kids into a friendship of overreaching fantasy. Leslie pulls Jess out of the real world, teaching him how to leave his mind wide open. They both begin the construction of a fantasy world only they can access; it becomes their afternoon game. This world of fantasy is for Jess and Leslie their door away from a life neither one enjoys.
Their game is in fact the type of game I used to love playing when I was a kid. Apparently a psychologist once told my mother I had my own little world. She was wrong. I had several.
As a kid I was very much like both Leslie and Jess. I found bullies everywhere, even in my soup. The happiest afternoons for me were when I was engrossed in epic battles or endless travels. Since I have always been a city boy, my 4 meters by 4 meters room was my enchanted place. When I was left to play on my own either at the family cottage, or at a park, these too became worlds of their own. Action figures were my favourite toys for they could embody any persona I chose for them. I would play my life away, enjoying the thrills of near defeat, the warmth of imaginary companions, the cold of foggy forests and the satisfaction of victory. My favourite scenarios were of mountains and valleys, but from time to time I would travel into space. These were simply the joyous lands of my imaginary choosing.
Unlike Jess or Leslie I had no friend with whom I could share these wonders. José Vicente was the only friend I could sometime play with, but our games consisted of re-enacting our favourite movies. Besides he lived far away from me and eventually we parted ways. Mine was a game of solitary.
I mostly played alone for I quickly learned not all kids enjoyed imagination quite as much as I did. I played only if I could avoid being seen while playing. For that reason I never went to the park when my parents said, “César, there are kids out, you should go.” When forced to go down, I would stay for a short time before finding the remotest place where I could enjoy my games. Sometimes a kid a few years younger than me would come.
One day, I asked a new kid to play with me. He was new to the apartment condominium I lived in, which in Bogotá are enclosed and open only to owners. I heard he was a gentle boy with good manners, quite different from the other rascals. I concluded he was someone I could safely ask about joining me in one of my games. He answered, “I don’t play like that. I like soccer and sports. So no, thanks.” Indeed he was better than the others, but his answer hurt.
"Terabithia" brought back to me more than just the memories of my games and bullies. When Jess met Leslie, I recalled the days when I dreamed of finding that one girl who would like me for who I am. I longed to have a friend like her. Interestingly, my desire for such a friend began when I saw "My First Kiss", which in some ways resembles "Terabithia". There would be moments when I would lay on my back imagining the different ways in which I could meet the girl I wished for. In those day dreams it was always a new girl uncorrupted by the other kids; unlike the other girls who stood by or plainly ignored me when I was in junior high. Among my favourite ways in which I would meet this girl was me finding her sitting, crying by the door of one of the classrooms. Her reasons for crying would vary from dream to dream, but what was important is that we both bonded. At other times, it would be she who would rescue me from the pit. We were both each other’s knight in shinning armour, just like Jess and Leslie were in "Terabithia".
"Terabithia" it is an amazing production which changed my life a little bit more. By bringing back those rather sad memories in me, "Terabithia" taught me something I should have known from the beginning. Today I am a happy university student with great ambition. My friends are the best thing that has happened to me. I now have a girlfriend who came when I least expected, but whom I care for nonetheless. My relationship with my parents, who, Like Jess’s dad, used to be overly worried with matters of the material world, is great. I have no complains. But I look back and I see a César looking over the brink at the age of 14. Bullying and the stress it caused managed to pull me away from my imaginary worlds almost permanently (only now am I reviving the flame of my imagination). Luckily, at 14 I made some amazing friends that kept me away from any craziness. However, I now understand what kept me emotionally alive during those years. I have learned that the imagination is a magnificently powerful tool.

Love, with a Taste for Coffee (PART 2)

2007-01-15T02:47:42Z

"Of course I was going to attend such a wedding,” answered Cupid to my question, “in my years of providing my valuable service, this has got to be the most outrageous couple I ever got the pleasure to introduce!” He continued explaining, “in fact, it was a matter of chance. It happens every other century or so. I’ve got outstanding aim as you can see from the scar I left on Krad’s heart.” He pointed at the mystical scar we all bare from Cupid’s arrows, and that now lay plainly on Krad’s heart. Cupid and I have the capacity of seeing those wounds doctors and psychologists always miss. But don’t blame them, they work on the empirical realm, we work on the spiritual – all our souls have a heart. Doctors, psychologists and you are still capable of sensing what we openly see. Ever heard someone say that they no longer seek love out of fear they might be hurt again? Those are what Cupid calls, “the chronically heart-scared people, or CHSP for short.”
Cupid went on with his reasoning for attending the Krad and Coffee Machine 3000 FA wedding. “In my trade, I’ve seen everything. Do not, by any means, think I see the world through rose-coloured glasses. I am like a police officer or a paramedic, I see the shit people are,” he said and paused at my puzzled face expression. “Dear friend,” he continued, “I see people for what they are, but I love them nonetheless.” He then cracked at the redundancy of Cupid loving something. I understood the joke immediately. “Krad and Coffee Machine 3000 FA, or Coffee Maker like she likes to be called, are a breath of fresh air for me, and believe me when I say this: I have never considered a mistake of mine a good thing.” He again paused to analyze why I had a confused expression. I did not know what he thought was his mistake. When he caught on, he added, “dear me! Didn’t you know? I got Krad in the heart alright, but I released the arrow a bit too soon. You see, I wanted him to fall in love with the girl at the register, but his eyes fell on Ms. 3000 FA,” he saw I understood and said, “by the way, did you know FA stands for Fast and Aromatic? What a cheap marketing that company had.”
Indeed this wedding was different, but I doubted it would be a breath of fresh air, as Cupid put it. Poor love sprite, that Cupid. His trade has changed; he works for the money and art of his profession. I see the vulgar marks this change has caused in this sprite’s body. His physique went from that of a Michelangelo to that of any average Canadian man. He still had muscle; those arrows take skill and strength, but he had developed somewhat of a gut. The most affected areas where his legs and wing muscles. Ever since he got a car, and especially since he drives a Hummer, he has forgotten how to fly. He no longer takes those fast sprints, speedy as sun-light, that would gather the air he needed to take flight. He no longer beats his wings fast and hard in hopes of striking the right person at the right time.
Oh I remember those days when Cupid arrived a millisecond late, when two people perfect for each other walked by without noticing their compatibility. Those were the days the world went love crazed. Cupid, in his fury at the failed opportunity, would just fly around striking anyone. The world would be so love high it became hilarious to watch, sometimes. I had to intervene to stop him back in the sixties when his arrows were causing more harm than amusement.
I would consider Britney Spears' blitz wedding the culmination of Cupid’s hope for the true use of his love potion. That woman rolled over Cupid’s sensibilities like a tank over the Maginot line. that wedding also made me realize how badly people treated the concept of love. Ironically, I felt they needed it more than ever. Cupid attended that wedding, knowing full-well it meant the clearest picture of how low his trade had gone. I’ve never seen the poor fellow so drunk. He cried like a desperate whore whose baby boy just got lost in another pimp’s territory. My sympathy for him was great. He said to me, “Love’s butterflies have turned into maggots and its diamond-like endurance rots like a bloody corpse in the tropics.” Yes, his once respectable job, the spreading of love, has become the making and collecting of putrefaction.
That day he probably put on a few kilos and developed a prominent beer gut. Cupid was still drunk when the famous couple filed for divorce, and nursing a hangover when the tabloids were printing the ‘news’ for the fourth day on a row. I admire Cupid. In spite of that bitch-slap he received from Mrs. Spears, he has developed a good humor to deal with his problems. I just hope I stop finding bottles of scotch in his apartment.

Love, with a Taste for Coffee

2006-12-22T08:03:40Z

Rainy days have a nack for bringing love to a person. You would think otherwise because it is hard to imagine Cupid flying, with his fluffy white-feathered wings, in the middle of a storm. But somehow he manages to do it. I am of the thought that he left his traditionalist mannerism and finally got a car. Either way, it doesn't matter how Cupid gets around in a stormy day, just that he does.
Krad, an idealist with earthly customs, gives it a logical argument to why rainy days brings love. He thinks Rainy days keeps people inside; that it takes away the need to go outdoors. So those who wish to go to work, don't feel like it, and those who find excuses to leave the house have none. In his mind, rainy days force people to huddle around, collect some thoughts, and observe those close to us. When you are sitting with friends in a café, or alone but with friendly stranger - the clatter of rythmic drops on the windows- then you are vulnerable to love. It is like granulated coffee beans inside a maker with water being poured over it, so that in the heat and steam of the mating, aromatic coffee can come out in the end. His is a logical thought dressed in beautiful idealism. That's Krad for you, an idealist with earthly customs.He strongly believes the soothness of rainy days equates to vulnerability to love (I still think it is Cupid in a Hummer defying Mother Nature).
Krad found himself reviewing his thoughts on rain and love, when Cupid struk in a drive-by shooting. Darn was Cupid good at aiming while moving; that heart-shapped arrow-head struck deep into Krad's heart. His chest was pierced as he turned his head toward the counter next to the lady who was going through a transaction.
When he felt the sting of love at first sight, Krad nearly stains his pants with the caramel mocchatio he was drinking. No woman had ever caused such vibrations in his being. Stopped like paused movie, Krad uttered the words that only rapid heart beats can pronounce truthfully. "Te amo y no puedo vivir sin ti," he said in Spanish, and then, as if he thought that his new found love new only English, he translated and said, "I love you and I cannot live with out you."
Krad's eyes reflect the beauty he contemplated agape with awe. That light that shone from her fair skin formed a protective aura about her; a shield to guard her beauty from the rust of time and use. She exposed only enough of her to make anybody's heart jump. From the angle Krad watched, her curve was smooth and toned like the body one a Michelango Greek goddess. Her mouth, opened like a spout or kiss in slow motion, made Krad kiss the air. She was beauty incarnate.
A very long moment passed before Krad made a move. So long it took that Cupid was already involved in more shootings, generated thus more headlines for the tabloids. But Krad rose to the occation as soon as the numbness of his chest turned into fuel for action. Like a bolt he was up from his chair, managing to stain his pants in the rapid move. He strode to the counter where his love awaited. His plan was a daring one, reserved only for teenagers like Romeo with suicidal instintcs. His pace was as firm as that of a soldier toward the ecstasy of battle.All he wanted to do was to marry that wonderful being.
In what seemed like a nanosecond, Krad reached the counter. He looked at the lady at the cash register and said, "Ma'am, I wish to buy that coffee maker."
And thus began the tragedy of Krad and his dear wife the coffee maker

saladempire @ 2006-10-29T11:21:00

2006-10-29T18:24:23Z

A problematic of otherworldliness
en par with the unreachable
quest for the desirable
envy of the intelligent flesh.
That is he who we chastize
for a problematic of otherworldliness.

The Rising

2006-10-18T04:33:07Z

On a swift night
With the sooth of a wing moved
Cold, we behind
Saw death take flight.

For us there was
no more than a starry night,
And a floor from which,
The dark veil can't be reached.

And the bird brandished its prey
Gently to us on ground.
We could see a senior and a child,
Both at peace and calm.

Beginning and end flew
on death's feathery back,
like time stopped
At the anguished filled moment.

We misjudge and curse
the gentle bird which took
a zenith and a nadir of life,
because we can't comprehend
because we are left behind,
because we thought we could never reach
and immortally be on the ground.

Goodbye, from down here!
Take care in this night!
All we can sense now
is the shadow of the bird in flight.
Rising, floating and in the end
going and moolight
Again shinning.

Still alive

2006-10-07T16:38:40Z

Hello, I'm still alive, and I don't know how. School picked up its pace pretty quicly and I have barely been able to do anything that is not school related (personal higene notwithstanding). As soon as I have enough time to sit down and write I will. A couple of poems are floating inside my head.
toodles,
Cesar

Haven't been here for a while

2006-09-05T00:08:21Z

I know I haven't posted lately, but the reason is simple, I did not have anything to say. I've mostly been trying to finish Catchen, and I didn't wanna post until I had a general idea of its ending. Now I do, all I am missing is the name of one of the Catchen. It elludes me. I can't find one appropriate for its personality. But no worries, it will come soon enough and the last part will be on LJ soon.
Expect these kind of bursts from me now that school is near. I will desappear for a while and then BOOM!! I have a milion things to say. I'll keep pace with my friend's postings, that I will do.
So toodles, and hope I keep hearing from you guys and gals

saladempire @ 2006-08-20T13:07:00

2006-08-20T19:07:51Z

(Tired of reading the same old woe-is-me poem or entry in 100 Words, I decided to write this one in response)

Cupid’s Hell

Love makes you sound sad and melancholy,
Because you love not the person but the story.
You paint scenes with tears and rain
More like a weather man wishing me a bad day.
Or to sound deeply in love you recall
Sips of coffee, sunsets and a telephone call.

Do people love more when they’re sad?
If so, Shakespeare’s shrew is mad
And other loves are all bad!

Love is blind but not dumb
The bugger knows originality from dung
Love is happiness, love is free
It comes not with a perpetual sadness fee.

So please, liberate cupid from writing hell!

Reading Pattern

2006-08-18T05:57:52Z

Reading Pattern
Last year's summer reading went all over the place. I jumped from the epic love in Love in the Times of Cholera (Garcia Marquez) to Piscine's tragically hilarious voyage in Life of Pi, to savouring blood in the Hannibal trilogy, to the life journey of Adam's eldest son Cab [I think that was his name] in Steinbeck's East of Eden. Did I have a pattern? No. These were books I was craving to read since the last gruelling weeks of my second university year. They were beautiful books, all of which still have an impact on my perspective, and my writing skills.

Surprises are always good. I love surprises, and this year one came my way. My summer reading has had an underlying theme of love and spirituality. Furthermore, it has gotten me thinking about the one above! (Pinky, you can insert your laugh here). Many know me as a former atheist, anti-religion, and current agnostic. Theology was an easy way of loosing me in a conversation or getting me angry. And I don’t get angry easily. God and I had made a truce after I decided there must be some higher power. My side of the bargain was to eventually seek a path and follow it at my own pace. I think I’ve found a path, and I am contemplating it as books keep coming my way.

Coincidence would be a way to describe the manner in which I arranged my summer reading. However, I think the one above cheated a little bit by bending the events just so my summer reading would have a pattern. Damn loopholes in the damn bargains! He know I thoroughly enjoy complex books.

It began with a history/poli-sci book on Trujillo’s dictatorship in the Dominican Republic. READ IT!! What a great way to understand power structures and their victims. The Feast of the Goat, by Vargas Llosa (the book I’m talking about) is also very easy to read, as well as engaging. Llosa’s book left me somewhat moody. The world is too messed up, politics rough and I am just an egg. Powerlessness is the name of such a feeling.

I read Llosa’s book fairly quick, and after it I had little energy to read or think; a bit of school burn-out. I stuck to a bit of the news and a lot of PlayStation. One of my favourite games (Ace Combat 5), however, was a very complex political thriller in the midst of airplane fighting. So exciting. I did pick up a book I got for my b-day, called Trojan Horse, by J.J. Benitez. I read it extra slowly. On the side I was reading the short, At the Mountains of Darkness. But in B.C I got plenty of spare time to read and the Trojan Horse became a perspective into theology I had never thought of. If you are unsatisfied with how Jesus is portrayed at church and elsewhere, read this book. One can’t help but fall in love with everything he represents.

Secondly, I read Cohelo’s The Pilgrimage. Love, universal acceptance of people, knowing that God is for the common people and not an unreachable Father, and enriching the spirit were again present themes in this beautiful little book. Finally I read Stranger in a Strange Land, which I devoured so quickly I cannot yet grok (understand) the ending in fullness. But waiting will fill. Hahaha, Am I ever a dork. But as dorky as I am, it begins to feel as if I am loved unconditionally by someone else other than my mom. And that presence, is, I think, within me; always with me and its love unrestricted by pious rules. I am drifting farther way from religion and ever closer to…God.
P.S. God, I know you cheated legally under our bargain. I might play a prank on you for that. See yah later buddy
year.

A dead tree

2006-08-10T06:05:44Z

A dead tree
Nest is
For higher beings
With majestic wings,
Brandished on the cote of arms
When from the sky dive
The bombing war eagles.

I'm back

2006-08-09T17:29:26Z

Sorry I've been silent for the past 3 weeks, but I went to Vancouver, Victoria and Vernon for the first time. BC keeps captivating me. So green so full of natural life, that province will surely be my ratiring place. Hey, maybe I could even build a political career in Vancouver. Politically, that city is more open minded than Calgary, but I still have some hope in good ol' cowtown.
Vancouver is a dream city. As a matter of fact, I bought a book about it called, Dream City. Looking at the maps was somewhat puzzling. For starters, Vancouver is extremely close to the US border. Sorrounded by the Coastal mountains and flanked by the sea, I could barely belive such a huge city could exists. According to Dream City, Vancouver was built in the right place and at the right time. The Fraser Valley, along with its suculent river, provide it a comfy and fertie nest. For a long time, Vancouver was self sufficient, a bit poor, but slef-sufficient nonetheless. At the 49 degree and 2 minutes, Vancouver's world location, the climate is temperate, humid, and fresh. A few kilometers, no, a few meters to the north, the mountain range becomes a rainforest. A friggin' rainforest!!! Talk about change. Having been the last city to thrive in Canada this city was able to grow its own solutions as well as study other northamerican cities. Though it had to wait for a long time before the railway could drink from the west coast, the isolation helped it build a local individuality which has served as a catalyst for its homegrown urban projets.
Gas Town, the Waterfront, and Stanley Park are so exicting. They were bohemian, fun, and relaxing respectively. I could feel an urban vibe, an intellectual side, a cultural air which I constantly which Calgary could have. Last but definitely not least, Vancouver has a lot of buildings. I love buildings. When I went to NYC, its buildings were the first things to pull a 'wow' out of my mouth.

saladempire @ 2006-07-18T22:53:00

2006-07-19T05:13:55Z

Devil of my heartbroken dreams, stare at me so I can read.
Now let us play.
You are sly with crafty hip moves and a slithering tongue
I am here for fun, to get drunk and maybe fuck you
However, the game seems more interesting,
And your genitals somewhat hazardous.
But we are both for the fun, you for my money
And more.

Walking into the club
Like a hot prom princess, ready to dominate
Fools
Scanned the room for a target with money
And booze in his head.
Bumped into someone that knows how to play.

Is it my money you want?
Here it is,
Now let’s lick each other’s tongues
Let’s dance some more
Let’s turn each other on.
More beer for you?
Here it is, let me touch you
You touch me.
A martini for now?
Seduce me, hook me in
Hoping to trap me in, with one last tease?
One more drink and after last call
To bed it is?
Here’s tequila
Go ahead, touch me there, and start me
Like a car,
I’m not going to move

See you got your booze and I got mine,
But fools are others, you are one
Cleverness your life as a night critter may bring,
But your self-hate and artificial drug nights by day kill you
I searched a one night fling,
Broken my heart was, so you were the prize.
You wanted a leashed boyfriend in this new city,
Guess who won when the city train left with me on
And you begging for me to stay,
After just one night of near-sex,
Asking me with fluctuating moods
Insults, teases and flattery?
Guess who won at your nightly game
When I came out from the night untied
And you, drunk
And penniless?

Post to Globe and Mail July 17, 2006

2006-07-18T05:51:13Z

The reason why it is so easy to blame Israel is because they are rich and powerful, which is the same reason the US is blamed for many of Latin American problems. As powerful states in their neighbourhood they are expected to exercise restrain. Also they are an easy scapegoat.
Having said that, I want to clarify that the blame belongs on both sides. Taking one side over the other is not, I repeat, is not the right thing to do. No matter how showered we have been by messages that tells us to take a stance, we should all cool our engines and act moderately. I am still puzzled at such an overwhelming response from the part of Israel. Yet, I cannot help but roll my eyes in disgust at Hezbollah’s predictable call for bloodshed. What happened to the road to peace?
My biggest fear right now is no one is telling our Prime Minister to be a leader in finding a peaceful solution; a solution that will dismantle Hezbollah and Hammas for the long run. In the words of the Lebanese Prime Minister, “Violence in Lebanon will only create a nationalistic or religious uprising.” This man, in the fragile position he is at the moment, is predicting the future.
Giving peace a chance is taking a stance, and a valiant one at that. People complain it generates no fruit, but that is because no one sticks to it for long. Columnists will say it is refreshing to see Canada picking a side. Canada right now is backing away from the more complicated job of brokering a deal between the factions. You see, it is not easy to be in the middle. Let us be brave and do it anyhow.

III

2006-07-17T21:22:08Z

[Tagged under catchen. To make sense of the story, read Catchen and II before you read this part]

Roosty had indeed suffered her through love and hate, imbalances and calm. Never had there been such a soul; so forgiving, maybe even forgetting. He did not care if she slept with chicken or cock as long as she came back bare. All she had to do was strip down her fragile soul and lay it bare in front of him. His was always naked for her. In this relationship the best sex came without the mess on the hay. They were two souls, touching each other naked in the darkness of a light world of superficiality. Tangled they rolled happily in each other’s jokes and invented worlds of happiness. Only looks and expressions are allowed to caress each other in the night. A deep gaze into each other’s eyes struck more chords and made more musical orgasms than any other nightly misadventure. It truly was good expressional sexuality which kept them together.

That was the type of sex Roosty taught Miss Chick during those days of courtship. Miss Chick didn’t mind Roosty, he was handsome, wise and interesting, and his position as morning rooster made him well off. But he had fallen for her even before she had considered him as a candidate for the night. She never gave into those who seemed needy, which was Miss Chick’s first impression of Roosty. After all, there were rumours of his virginity. But beyond his seemingly immature ways of asking a girl out, Miss Chick began to notice in him a way out of the life she hated. Like the window small window she liked to stare out of when she was working at the chicken accessory shop, Roosty displayed a bright summer day. Days went by and Roosty did not give up even though Miss Chick made every effort of not sleeping with him. Not that he was insistent, she really liked him. He kept taking her out for drinks and movies. He visited her at the shop. Conversations ranged from his days as a fighter rooster to his beloved university days. “So wise, so nice, so safe” thought Miss Chick, “that can’t be real.”

Of course, Miss Chick played her games on him. You see, she was slutty because that gave her control. No one recognized her intellect, so she did not display it to the cocks talking about politics in bars and cafés. No one ever recognized her skills as a business woman, so she stuck to her managerial job at the shop. No one even liked her beautiful drawings, so she did not go to school. Her looks, on the other hand, those were lusted by everyone. She knew it. With a simple semi-circular movement of her wing on the dance floor she could get drinks, rides, enjoyment, free tickets, but most of all, prestige. Every damned cock in the land of unforgiving souls thought of her as a feathered Aphrodite. Every chicken that slept with her made Miss Chick their nightly dream. In spite of her well known sluttiness, Miss Chick was respected.

The first thing Roosty did to disarm her was not to lust her. Miss Chick’s well trained nose, could detect cocks salivating for her, but the morning rooster was impeccably well mannered. Disconcerted, Miss Chick used her strong personality to impose some control over him. The wise rooster knew the game and counterattacked with jokes and charm. He was good at it, she cracked open her protective shell and let him glimpse her soul more often than not. Then Miss Chick, after days of being a considerable bitch –demanding and systematically rejecting Roosty’s suggestions –took out her last pair of weapons, alcohol and lust. Roosty had never been so drunk in his life. She smiled at the expectation of finally breaking into Roosty’s lust and controlling him thus. “My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely lady hump,” rang off the club’s amplifiers. They danced, they kissed, and he was falling. They walked home, entered Miss Chick’s room, infamous for the many who had there succumbed to Miss Chick’s spells. But she was in for a surprise.

Laying on her bed, Roosty made no moves on her. “Shit he passed out,” Miss Chick thought, “Note-to-self: never mix tequila and beer. If I wake him, his dick won’t stand up anyway. I’ll lie to him in the morning about us sleeping together.”
“Don’t, because I won’t believe you,” answered Roosty for Miss Chick had said that last sentence out loud.
“Damn it, Roosty, are you gay?”
“No, I love you.”
“How so,” she sat on the bed and crossed her wings. Her eyes burned into his, but it was futile, the poor rooster could barely focus his eyes. All his concentration was focused on talking and letting Miss Chick know about his love.
“That day,” began Roosty, “when that damned Cockadoole touched you.”
She waited
“He touched you improperly after you had made it clear you were not interested in him. He was strong. I was there. You stormed out.”
The unpleasant episode re-formed in her head. Cockadoole was an ass of a bar tender. None of her recent lovers was there to protect her. She had gone for a drink alone that night. All she wanted was a little I-before-you time.
“I saw you cry when I left the bar. You were sitting on a bench on the road leading to the Pine Farm.” He meant the Fine Farm, but he was too drunk. “It was then I knew you hated your life and I decided to help you. I fell in love with you in the process.”
His first intention had never been courtship, Miss Chick finally realized, he wanted to help. Her shell hatched, she was out for him. She loved him since. He passed out, though.

For this reason, during her months of tears, Miss Chick had hoped she and her children could find refuge in Roosty the morning rooster. His disgust toward the new born creatures, threw Miss Chick into a horrible pit of anguish. She pleaded to Roosty for understanding and acceptance, what would she do without his strength at her side? Only his love made him give in.
Their first task was to give them a name to their species and to each of these creatures individually. Roosty took on the task for Miss Chick would have given them names such as: Honey Bunny, Cup Cake, and Sweetie. At first she was reluctant to let Roosty name them arguing that why should her children have regular names, why not something nice for a change. A frustrated sigh from Roosty meant she had to step aside and let him do it. He wasn’t naming them out of love, for he still found them disgusting. He knew they needed an identity.
Choosing a name for the species was tough. Cat-chicken, chick-cat, chickat, feline-bird, and combinations of the sort did not have the correct English rhythm. If ever they presented themselves with such names, they’d be laughed at before they even give their real names. “Hello, my name is Bob, the cat-chicken.” It didn’t sound right. Also, those combinations were not catchy enough. Their species needed to have a strong name, something fearful. A dragon would not be as scary if it were named Big Lizard, or Bat Salamander. Imagine calling yourself chikat. Eventually, racking his brains gave Roosty an acceptable product: Catchen. It was short and carried the force of a trochee.
Now, onto their individual names. His task was made easier by nature. Given that they were a new species, Miss Chick had only three live eggs, the others died before they were laid. It took Roosty a little longer to name them. He wanted to know them better, make their names appropriate to their personality. Deep inside, Roosty wished these things the best of luck. They had landed on the wrong place. This earth was not for them. They would be treated like children under the Catholic Church are when they are born outside marriage. It wasn’t their fault, but they would carry the blame. However, just as deep, Roosty re-encountered his dark side. This episode in his life had broken the beast’s cage door open, and Roosty feared it could devour his love for Miss Chick, and prevent him from protecting these bastard children.

A little anecdote

2006-07-17T06:52:01Z

{Originally told for flydovely to cheer her up. I hope it cheers everyone else as well)
Have you ever met someone that is really picky with their food? I have. A good friend of mine won't consume tomatoes, onions, foods that has too little salt, or beverages that are to hot, etcetera. I sometimes wonder how he hasn't disappeared into thin air. He is a testament of the how nutritious Mac'n'Cheese is. If prisoners of war were fed mac'n'Cheese, no one would complain about their horrible living conditions. They would look so healthy no one would believe they were prisoners.
Anyhow, before I get into my friend's story, I just wanted to give you an example of such eating habits. Funny people I think. I myself would starve on Mac'n'Cheese alone. Another person who has picky eating habits is my cousin Oscar. Is it ever difficult to feed him?
Back in Colombia, where I am from, we had a recreational farm. It is somewhat of a summer cottage except we cultivate some orange, lemon and mandarin trees and keep some cows with their calves around. There is also a lazy white horse, a fat dog, lilies, chickens, and a fighting rooster. Next to the house we dedicate to family and friends gatherings, there is a lush chilli bush; Colombian chillies are small and hot as hell. They are a spice for life and food. Just in case your mind is walking around that farm and thinking it always smells of citrus fruit and wet grass, I want to remind you cow manure can be found a few yards from the oranges. Instead of being utopia, it is a great earthly place, a place for everyone.
Family and friends come to the farm to relax and have fun, a lot of fun. My dad doesn’t know, but when I was 15 and my friends and I went to the farm for a week long stay, I had my first drunken night. It was hilarious. It is a story for another time.
The chickens are fun to watch. They are so dumb it is funny. As they walk around, their necks keep a beat that coincides with their wobbly pace. These creatures are walk as if on clouds; always thinking the world is there for them, that it should provide exactly what they wish. My cousin is kind of like a chicken, he walks through life making demands, and we love him so. Besides, he is the subject of many laughs, just like chickens trying to fly.
On a day we had just milked the cow, our cousin declared his distaste for fresh milk. “it tastes nothing like milk. It is not as refreshing. Fresh milk is disgusting,” he said with an air of disdain toward the bucket of fresh milk. My other cousins and I did not loose a heart beat; Oscar was in for a prank.
We sacrificed our hour of siesta (this noonish nap is practiced in all of Latin America) to pour the fresh milk into a box of what my cousin calls ‘real milk.’ To make the prank complete, we filed the bucket with the boxed milk. Oh, it was so perfect.
Eventually Oscar woke up. We told him we had gone for a long walk and were ready to refresh our beaks with some fresh milk. He chuckled out of pity for our poor taste. “You’ll see how much more enjoyable my milk is,” he said.
We were set. Four young people sat around a table, like Camelot knights. In our hands we held plastic cups full of our preferred beverages. Our eyes burned into each other. Three of us were expecting the fourth one to spit out the liquid he had just dank.
He drank the fresh milk, sat the cup on the table, smacked his lips, and pronounced a long ‘ahhh.’ That was delicious. My cousins and I spit out our milk unable to contain our laughter. He had liked the ‘non real milk.’ The prank had gone better than expected.
After about 15 minutes of laughter, we let Oscar into the secret. Pale, and humiliated he said, “I thought it tasted funny.”
Oh, dear Oscar, wobbly chicken you are

II (Catchen continued, Read "catchen" first)

2006-07-07T16:34:06Z

He was too fast, but what could Miss Chick expect from a guy humping her in her sleep. Taking the opportunity to break the rapist's illusion of power even further, Miss Chick turned around. She was going to say, "You are bad, you can't even hit the spot," but what she saw kept her quiet. Dangerously close to her was Blind Whiskers; a stocky, strong built cat, with ginger fur and very long whiskers. His tongue hung like a dog after catching his ball, but his expression was one of confusion. “Why is there a chicken in front of me?” he thought. Cursing out loud and turning his back to her, Blind Whiskers walked away. Miss Chick could not accept what her vision suggested. She was smart – though she may not admit it – so she understood what had happened perfectly. However, the fact horrified her entirely. She kept denying the fact for a full week, until one day she broke down and cried undisturbed for a very long time. A cat had been with her all the time!

Time and time again, Roosty, the morning rooster, had dealt with Miss Chick’s mood swings. He knew they were due to her self hatred, but he weathered it. Loyal like no other and idealistic to the point of stupidity, this middle-aged rooster stood by Miss Chick through unfaithfulness and suffering. Hope and his life long desire to prove love can rehabilitate anybody, made Roosty an enviable boyfriend. He had been a bachelor for quite a long time, but all the while he kept promising he would be the best boyfriend ever. Who did he make the promise to? No one knows. What everybody knew, besides the rumours of him being gay, was how near he got to resembling his favourite song: ’38 Years Old,’ by The Tragically Hip. Animals on every farm saluted him cordially, but in low voices they repeated the song’s chorus, “38years old, never kissed a girl.”

Miss Chick was truly a blessing for him. Cute, graceful, interesting, good in bed, and complicated as Dante’s interpretation of hell, Miss Chick was Roosty’s dream chicken. He was entirely devoted to loving her and reforming her. She was unfaithful, sneaky, and very manipulative, but throughout their five years together, Roosty had developed defence mechanisms. But when Miss Chick broke into tears for three full months – the same number of minutes it took Blind Whiskers to reach his climax – Roosty got terribly worried. Everybody knew why, Roosty included. The news had spread like wildfire, but animals in every farm held back their comments mainly because they were grateful for the small creek Miss Chick’s tears had created. It was the dry season. Luckily the couple lived on the top of the barn, and their house never got flooded.

Miss Chick cried instead of letting her heart stop from lack of a will to live. She wanted to keep living for two reasons, Roosty and her eggs. Her motherly instinct told her the children were going to suffer the lashing scrutiny of everyone’s hypocrite words. All animals attended mass, but they always forgot to pay attention to those passages that required them to change. Therefore, they did not hesitate to throw stones at every sinner that stepped out of the common orgy of sins. Miss Chick’s children were certainly going to be whipped into murderous rampages or suicide.

Three months and a week later, her eggs hatched. She smiled. She blushed. She actually felt embarrassed receiving her children in such a state, and she told Roosty embarrassed she was. Her long months of crying had stripped her from her chest feathers, once very much admired in this hamlet of unforgiving souls. Her eyes were still puffy and red, and the arrival of new life made her tear up again. Roosty calmed her and made her fill beautiful with the bath of kisses he washed her with. There had not a cuter scene in this hamlet of unforgiving souls; a chicken and her rooster, looking down at the cracking eggs.
Such a scene in such a place can only last so long. As soon as the first chick turned its head toward his parents and stumbled unto they hay, Roosty pushed Miss Chick aside in disgust. A whiskered beak and a long ginger tail made part of this abhorrent pink sack of fragile bones. His disgust would grow as soon as he saw these creatures’ eyes. Miss Chick’s fears grew into uncontrollable anxiety. She froze when looking at how Roosty contemplated her new born babies.
[Will Roosty control his disgust for devotion to Miss Chick? Is Miss Chick going to survive the anxiety that it is just starting to gnaw at her heart? wait and see]

Savin' my cook rep

2006-07-06T01:00:00Z

Cooking for me was foreign when I was back home. But it was to be expected. Since age five I had a nanny who cooked, made my bed, whashed my clothes, etc. Spoiled? yeah, very.
In Calgary I had a very embarrasing moment fresh off the boat. I love tea (not as much as coffee), but I didn't know how to brew it. Therefore, I actually phoned a new friend I had made and asked her for advice. I almost go without tea for my friend had a laughing fit.
Having said that, and for those of you who have read my very first entry, I wish to salvage my tarnished cook reputation. I do cook, and often during the summer. Lately I've been having a love afair with stri-frys. On saturday I made one that involved a delicious orange and soy sauce, plus some cashews. Hmm cashews. today it was a sweet and sour potato, meat and vegies. Simply awesome.
So, don't be afraid if I ask you over for dinner some time. It won't hurt, I promise.
PS. my hands now rink of meat and onions from seasoning. I've washed them more than 10 times now, literally. Any suggestions?

saladempire @ 2006-07-03T23:54:00

2006-07-04T05:55:54Z

LOL!!!, got it from cindy_reddeer. Awesome name for my porno.

The porno of César's life will be called ...

"Threes Company"

'What will the porno of your life be called?' at QuizUniverse.com

Catchen

2006-07-03T07:23:36Z

[Originally, this was the story behind a new sound I came up with. Instead of clucking, I decided to cluck and meow at the same time, pretending it was a Cat-Chicken. However, as soon as I started writing, the story started to running away from my original intentions. All i can do right now is record where the story goes]

Miss Chicken, or Miss Chick as she often introduced herself to bulky cocks, laid to rest underneath a bushy bush. The day was hot and she could feel a weakening of her knees due to egg formation within her. "And female humans think they have a hard time every month," thought Miss Chick underneath her bushy bush, "they don't get fat every time their eggs decide to go partying!" It was true; she was gaining weight, which meant half of her body was outside of the bushy bush. It did not bother her for her butt was still under the bushy bush's shade, cooling, something it didn't do often. She giggled at the thought that her butt was going from hot to cool.
Blind Whiskers is a cat whose name was lost in everybody’s mind ever since he became partially blind. That was 20 years ago. He was a rather likeable fellow, when he was asleep of course. Blind Whiskers did not care about anybody’s feelings. He was politically incorrect, enjoyed contradicting those who spoke to him, and openly made fun of others’ opinions. ‘Nasty’, ‘jerk’, ‘an ass’, are all words and phrases that would summarize this fellow’s character.
To Miss Chick’s dismay, Blind Whiskers was passing by just as she fell into deep sleep. His betraying eyes told Blind Whiskers that what poked from under the bushy bush was one of those pussies he humped to no one’s objection. They and their boyfriends were usually too scared of him. Obviously, Blind Whiskers didn’t hump ladies like Felona Feline. She had an elevated sense of self and balance; arrogant libertines like Blind Whiskers did not scare her. On the contrary, their presence caused her to turn on her debilitating, cold, sarcastic comments. She was capable of publicly insulting Blind Whiskers without suffering any reprisals. But to Blind Whiskers’ eyes that furry butt that provocatively lay in rest under the bush, looked nothing like Felona Feline’s black derriere. This one was white and fat. He humped her.
Miss Chick felt the assault, but did nothing. She pretended to sleep. She wasn’t scared nor was she abhorred. No, she felt annoyed. She thought it was that jock cock fighter she had refused a week ago. He kept calling her after the night when Miss Chick, having looked at his strong body, had flirted with him. She refused to have sex with him after noticing how possessive he was. Miss Chick thought her freedom was her only non physical attribute, so she priced it. If he was humping her, he must think of it as revenge. To destroy that cock’s illusion of power by raping her, Miss Chick chose to do nothing. Indifference hurts any macho attempt at overpowering women, she thought.

[More Cathchen to come. Wait and see what will happen to Miss chick now that hr eggs have been fertilized]

Snow in the Sand: Canada's involvement in Afghanistan

2006-06-29T17:46:02Z

I support our country's military operations in Afghanistan, but I want both the government and the military to do it in a smart way.
In a recent report by CTV, it appeared as if Canada was closely following the US style of counter-insurgency (now commonly known as counter terrorism). Coming from a country where insurgency is not only a problem but a real state defying issue, and having studied with some detail previous responses to this plague, I can assert that US counter-insurgent actions are utterly inefficient.
Before I go on, it is better to clarify why I'm calling the Taliban's actions in Afghanistan an insurgency rather than terrorism. Insurgent are guerrillas, which are armed rebels who oppose the government within their territories.They often attack like regular armies, or they use hit and run operations. However, they can also, as they often do, use terrorism to their advantage. Their main goal will continue to be the overthrow of their government. Insurgent soldiers (especially low ranking ones) are really upset with how their country is run. I don't mean "Damn those Liberals" kind of upset. These soldiers need to feel like they are doing what hard, honest work never accomplish. Killing for them seems justifiable.
Terrorism is the use of mass murder for the purpose of causing widespread fear. Their goals are many; Muslim terrorists want to punish gentiles, for example. The other main difference with insurgency is that they know no territorial boundaries. They can attack in Tokyo or in New York; they are incapable of overthrowing any particular government. Their leaders get followers by showing that their enemies are being punished, and often promise a better future if they continue doing so.
Sometimes the lines blurs, but the difference is important.
Why should we make the difference? Because our politicians are good spellbinders. If they think they are doing the right thing, or their actions serve their purposes, they will use words to convince people. 'Terrorism' is one of them. Thinking of what that word implies makes everyone think of evil people (their leaders certainly are, and their brain washed followers are close behind). But insurgency is an expression of real greif. They can all become evil, but that can be prevented. Canada has experience in conflict resolution, peacekeeping, and grassroots outreach. These components should be added to, or accompany all military operations. Alienating the people in places like Kandahar feeds the Taliban insurgency. Politicians may make the operations look good, leaving us thinking the troops are being ordered to do a great job. But if the CTV report is true (always question the media, too) even if only partially, then Canada is doing a shitty job in Afghanistan, and that's not cool.

Wow!

2006-06-24T08:11:45Z

If I could only remember the name of the song or the band that plays it. The logical thing to do would be to go onto MuchMusic.com and search the Countdown, but it is 1:30am and I don't feel like doing that much work. The point is, there is a line in that song I could relate to, until today. It goes as follows, "But I am romantically dead, so come on I'll waste my life on you."
True, I have had a crush hear and there. I also had an interesting diplomats dance at the Model United Nations in New York, but other than that I was very much romantically dead. People who know me in Colombia, and the first couple of friends I had here in Canada, would tell you that Cesar had a romantic spark. When I thought about poetry in high school I could only think of one use for it: all matters relating to the heart and love. Yeah, quite the idealist.
A couple of years later I began to grow a more mature head. Fears and insecurities got the best of me too. My mind rationalized my fears. What a combo, eh. I would almost physically freeze if it came to asking a girl out! The spark was gone! No anguish due to infatuation, no thoughts about what poem would best fit the characteristics of the girl I liked, not even uncomfortable butterflies. Just a tingling in the chest, which I would seize thinking it was that old sense of liking someone to the point of risking a deception. It would never last because it was never strong enough.
There is a crush resembling those past feelings, but it kept going on and off. Today it seems to have finally grown roots deeps enough to gnaw at my normal tranquility. It is always a pleasure talking to her, and she is very pretty. Seeing her today made me fidgety. Today, there was a slight touch that was longer than usual. You know how when you touch your friends' hands, you or your friend quickly draw back and usually say sorry? That kept me thinking, and thinking hard. Could she feel interested? In me? nah? Hmm, what if? Yeah my mind bought a one-way plane ticket to La La Land.
I was caught completely off guard, and I could barely concentrate. For the record I did not smoke any mary J, so my concentration should have been at its normal level. My head was thinking so hard I knocked my head on my knee while I was lying down watching TV. It was on purpose; to see if I could concentrate on an otherwise captivating TV program. My friend sitting near by thought I had lost it for no reason.
All I can say now is, "wow." Not even with an exclamation mark, it sounds more like a sigh. I am feeling bold, now. I am going to gamble. I'm a bit rusty, though. Whatever, I really like her, I hope she likes me too.

You just can't go thourghout the day without coffee!

2006-06-22T19:51:57Z

"So I'm talking to my doctor. the Doctor. About my nervousness, I'm nervous. And he says, 'You know what the problem might be is you drink so much coffee it is making you a little bit jittery', And I say, 'What?' And he says, 'coffee.' So I say 'yes, thank you, I would like some..."
" We were talking about my nervousness due to coffee over coffee."

Ah Foamy, I feel you. Coffee, just can't do anything without it...
I'll stop writing now that I drank my cup.

Cooking and Writing, but not simultaneously.

2006-06-21T20:42:38Z

I am going without lunch today and it is livejournal.com's fault. My friend Pinky had recommended the site for me. She knows I write from time to time. Well, here it is; my first entry into this journal and it starts with bad news.
As soon as Mexico disappointedly lost to Portugal (but still made it to the second round) I sat in front of the computer to create my account. I have spent quite a bit of time on it, and if you look at my 'user info' you'll know as I wrote quite a bit. Also, it took me about an hour to find a background I could agree with. The first one I chose was pink!!, DAH!
While I was choosing colours and words I started to hear noises. It sounded like someone walking gently on the wooden floors. Since the TV was on - waiting for the Argentina vs. Netherlands match - voices were added to the noise. I couldn't make out where the noise came from, so I also attributed it to the TV.
The only sense I usually obey without questioning is my sense of smell. A scary picture, a slimy burger, or a perturbing noise will generate in me only the slightest of reactions, or none if I am immersed on something else. But if I smell something that is awful or burning, my hearing sharpens, my eyes move incessantly in search of the origin of the smell, and my hairs stand on end not out of fear but to act as a second skin in case i feel the fire before I see it. It is not paranoia that makes my sense of smell such a trustworthy adviser, it so happens that my nose has saved me from tasting horrible things or letting the house on fire.
As the noise kept going and the Argentina-Netherlands match still to come, I noticed a slight change in the nature of the noise. It sounded like foots stepping on dry leaves; as if something small was cracking. My brain went rapidly through a list of things that could cause that noise and 'something burning on the stove' did cross my mind. Still, frustrated at the fact that I could not find an interesting background, i again attributed it to the TV. That didn't last long. As soon as the computer room's air particles changed from clean hair (I just took a shower) to something burning, my sometimes slow brain automatically raced for an answer. It was clear; my canned soup was boiling into a dry paste of beans and tiny pieces of meat. The mental picture began to form in me, but my body's chief adviser, my nose, had already put me into motion. The picture was still lacking colour when I saw how my lunch was becoming crisp.
*Sigh* Fortunately, my mom called soon after and offered to bring me a Vietnamese sub. She also offered to drive [wrote ride at first, which is my Spanish kicking in] me to work, which is awesome. However, I think I will no longer cook and write at the same time, unless I am using pen and paper while standing next to the kitchen stove.