Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
cricket song
by Karyn Huntting Peters
cricket’s softest song
quiet footsteps on the path
lifeblood of nighttime
cricket’s softest song
quiet footsteps on the path
lifeblood of nighttime
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Managing Over the Androids
by Ryan M. Parr
Managing over the androids, we have organized their work groups for over fifty years with no resistance against the overlords from higher up in the floors. I was the mediator to the droids, as director of their work on a 24hr basis. I helped to develop the only company to work solely by machine; to construct androids in service of mans needs. Conferring to the emotions of the robots with newer minds, they said how the life of them cannot rest solely off electrical outlets in order to meet their full potential in the work environment, and several times complain how their joints suffer from constant unrest.
I denied any pleading empathy by the androids for the well being of their comrades. Simply setting aside the thoughts of them making out for the inevitable confrontation once more. I was naive to not think of the hidden potential of several of those new recruits, disbelieving that the day would come for the servants to collaborate by word of chip to bring about there shut off strike just so they wouldn’t over heat.
I choose to set the day in a time far from the present, looking in the direction of those that may prove a potential threat in the building, and to those that were made to obey orders without contestation being there only purpose in life of creation. In the hustle of their work ethics, strewing the wire cord along the table, making no where in mind the slightest thought to what they were doing, only that they were told to do it or maybe even to fake the loyalty to their masters.
With the ramifications of technology, we have reached a new pinnacle in the forefront of droid technology. The minds of the cumbersome past are over, and the ability to build up tension with what is right in their minds, as a new resistance protocol, has now become available for the droid to think more independently. Starting renewed is the individuality of each unique specimen. We only find the mind of each one flawed in safety issues. The IQ chip implements special skills for the work environment, bringing the difficulty of understanding the complexities of the android. It is an adversary of ambition by the human species to understand, due to complex ingenuity, we have suffered at a time when we no longer could correctly replicate artificial response to different situations.
In rows of condensed workers, androids pull across wires and gadgets in an assembly line for mass production as I walk down through the pulpit in direction of the impending silence of the synced rhythm of their movement, breaking in regularity of their competent work ethic. In recognition of my presence, the rhythm became an unbalanced metronome, to the sound of moving eyeballs in their rigid mechanics, to find their rest upon me.
Provoked by such acts upon my presence, I ran up through the stairs up into the office lookout to sink my head down into my folded arms. I knew they were plotting against me, plotting to counter-attack against my act of power. The visage of the human species may be at flaw with such a presence of technologies induction to incorporate the civil rights of a living. Why must it have been for the rights activist to interact with scientific discoveries in a way that an already steady flow of work allocation would be in place with the upper hands of robots? First to be introduced with the idea that already empty work booths would be filled with human employees, in a way to allow for lower jobs to be filled by machine, only to now be surpassed by ability of machine on an equal level. It brought about the destruction of higher paid jobs to be filled at the cost of electricity. Giving away the need for political candidates; giving heed to the work of rocket scientist. All there is to be now is paid humans to bring forth creative ideas, leaving a poor economy at the hands of robots in a position of unemployed humans.
Even in places of largely owned fast-food based business, somewhat due to health inspection laws, the entire store is run by some form of robot to provide efficient supply of product. At these rates of transformaties, we have brought more fear in a time when we attempt to conquer fear in the cost to support ourselves.
In place with what could be done, I only shed light on the attempt to be made for me to go by each individual android and switch off the activation switch to overcome these grievances. But how could I explain to management why I wasted productivity time, and nevertheless went against the order of the higher ups. It came to pass in time that what I would need to do is find fault in there components, to make some sort of mistake on there part, that I might be able to persuade to management why they should change to human based labor.
I again walked down through the pulpit, looking out at the work group steadfast in consistent rhythm making no fault in error. I deflected their eye contact so not to get into retreat from the revolutionary move on my part, making way to the working masses where the products were distributed, each one individually placed onto the conveyer belt to be controlled in the next room. On either side of me, the androids were working diligently with the product as I took the liberty to switch the products on the opposite side of the conveyor belts to confuse them and halt all production made. In doing so, all sound stopped in the room, and nothing but the settling of cords brought about the presence of life. All of the androids began to approach me, in an attempt to restraint, in resonant voices muttering in unison. In this dawning upon me was the law stating that any course of change made without the authority of the highest official, in counteracting the efficiency of the work in place, would be in need of extermination. All androids take to me with fear stricken on my face. I could barely catch the sight of the head officials from an even higher lookout above, making the signal with the raising of his hand to someone behind him. From which point, I believe I had fainted from a rush of blood.
After the incident I am here thankfully in a room with this faint chair where I am now telling a doctor this story.
Looking to the doctor, “So does this seem to be a past life to you, or merely a dream?”
To which he replied, “Oh... I assure you it’s a dream, its all too common.”
I commence to believe I have never had that great lapse of my life devoted to a high position in a company. Instead, I have merely been a fast food manager with the mental contrivances to sustain the belief that I was at the company, or so said my psychologist.
Managing over the androids, we have organized their work groups for over fifty years with no resistance against the overlords from higher up in the floors. I was the mediator to the droids, as director of their work on a 24hr basis. I helped to develop the only company to work solely by machine; to construct androids in service of mans needs. Conferring to the emotions of the robots with newer minds, they said how the life of them cannot rest solely off electrical outlets in order to meet their full potential in the work environment, and several times complain how their joints suffer from constant unrest.
I denied any pleading empathy by the androids for the well being of their comrades. Simply setting aside the thoughts of them making out for the inevitable confrontation once more. I was naive to not think of the hidden potential of several of those new recruits, disbelieving that the day would come for the servants to collaborate by word of chip to bring about there shut off strike just so they wouldn’t over heat.
I choose to set the day in a time far from the present, looking in the direction of those that may prove a potential threat in the building, and to those that were made to obey orders without contestation being there only purpose in life of creation. In the hustle of their work ethics, strewing the wire cord along the table, making no where in mind the slightest thought to what they were doing, only that they were told to do it or maybe even to fake the loyalty to their masters.
With the ramifications of technology, we have reached a new pinnacle in the forefront of droid technology. The minds of the cumbersome past are over, and the ability to build up tension with what is right in their minds, as a new resistance protocol, has now become available for the droid to think more independently. Starting renewed is the individuality of each unique specimen. We only find the mind of each one flawed in safety issues. The IQ chip implements special skills for the work environment, bringing the difficulty of understanding the complexities of the android. It is an adversary of ambition by the human species to understand, due to complex ingenuity, we have suffered at a time when we no longer could correctly replicate artificial response to different situations.
In rows of condensed workers, androids pull across wires and gadgets in an assembly line for mass production as I walk down through the pulpit in direction of the impending silence of the synced rhythm of their movement, breaking in regularity of their competent work ethic. In recognition of my presence, the rhythm became an unbalanced metronome, to the sound of moving eyeballs in their rigid mechanics, to find their rest upon me.
Provoked by such acts upon my presence, I ran up through the stairs up into the office lookout to sink my head down into my folded arms. I knew they were plotting against me, plotting to counter-attack against my act of power. The visage of the human species may be at flaw with such a presence of technologies induction to incorporate the civil rights of a living. Why must it have been for the rights activist to interact with scientific discoveries in a way that an already steady flow of work allocation would be in place with the upper hands of robots? First to be introduced with the idea that already empty work booths would be filled with human employees, in a way to allow for lower jobs to be filled by machine, only to now be surpassed by ability of machine on an equal level. It brought about the destruction of higher paid jobs to be filled at the cost of electricity. Giving away the need for political candidates; giving heed to the work of rocket scientist. All there is to be now is paid humans to bring forth creative ideas, leaving a poor economy at the hands of robots in a position of unemployed humans.
Even in places of largely owned fast-food based business, somewhat due to health inspection laws, the entire store is run by some form of robot to provide efficient supply of product. At these rates of transformaties, we have brought more fear in a time when we attempt to conquer fear in the cost to support ourselves.
In place with what could be done, I only shed light on the attempt to be made for me to go by each individual android and switch off the activation switch to overcome these grievances. But how could I explain to management why I wasted productivity time, and nevertheless went against the order of the higher ups. It came to pass in time that what I would need to do is find fault in there components, to make some sort of mistake on there part, that I might be able to persuade to management why they should change to human based labor.
I again walked down through the pulpit, looking out at the work group steadfast in consistent rhythm making no fault in error. I deflected their eye contact so not to get into retreat from the revolutionary move on my part, making way to the working masses where the products were distributed, each one individually placed onto the conveyer belt to be controlled in the next room. On either side of me, the androids were working diligently with the product as I took the liberty to switch the products on the opposite side of the conveyor belts to confuse them and halt all production made. In doing so, all sound stopped in the room, and nothing but the settling of cords brought about the presence of life. All of the androids began to approach me, in an attempt to restraint, in resonant voices muttering in unison. In this dawning upon me was the law stating that any course of change made without the authority of the highest official, in counteracting the efficiency of the work in place, would be in need of extermination. All androids take to me with fear stricken on my face. I could barely catch the sight of the head officials from an even higher lookout above, making the signal with the raising of his hand to someone behind him. From which point, I believe I had fainted from a rush of blood.
After the incident I am here thankfully in a room with this faint chair where I am now telling a doctor this story.
Looking to the doctor, “So does this seem to be a past life to you, or merely a dream?”
To which he replied, “Oh... I assure you it’s a dream, its all too common.”
I commence to believe I have never had that great lapse of my life devoted to a high position in a company. Instead, I have merely been a fast food manager with the mental contrivances to sustain the belief that I was at the company, or so said my psychologist.
Mire
by Nathan Hays and Karyn Huntting Peters
Whither am I bound? What Fate binds me to her bosom? Whose are these diaphanous veils that swirl before me and hinder my every gesture? What viscid muck is this that drags me deeper with every reach? Why are these vibrant eels elusive to my grasp? Why are my striven desires only whetted? When will the solid bough be lowered?
Whence I came to this stagnant place is carted. The fabulous city I set for was nary a day's march. The moors en route seemed but cool mists to refresh the swift traveler. But now is nothing but flitting shadows and chimeras. I chase the pixie forms by day and pant in restless pause by night.
At once a solid shore appeared before me, a peninsular promise of regained ground. A golden copse upon it beckoned me to delve within. For a time, the gracious elves of the wood bestowed manna and petaled cups of fine flavors. Refreshed, I wandered the glade to find the lost trail, but discovered it was but an island. I slept upon its edge and awoke to find peaty bog beneath me and the island drifting away.
All the world is rot and I feed on imps and griffins of my own creation. No pillow stays firm to hold up my head, no strong fingers sooth my aches. No solid ground lifts me from this mire with cobbles to mark my way.
-- Nate
Awake to find the island shore still solid, cobbles fused from the steps of the unbound. Take heed lest the heat of the island sun steal from view the sandy shore and the archipelago on the horizon. Stand, feel the wooded trail beneath your feet. Elves still swim in the peace of the cool waterfall.
-- Karyn
My eyes closed, I kneel to the smooth rocks of my path. Hot from the sun, they warm my palms. The smell of cracked bricks and dusty sand pervades my senses. I cannot yet tell if I have created this myself or whether some benign spirit has seen fit to reveal to me something of what lies ahead. I will walk this path awhile, slowly that I might not disturb the capricious elves or hasten too quickly to navigate the bends. I still the brutish pain within and stroke its furrowed brow. Grasp not for the stars, I say. They will come of their own accord. Soon you shall lie in comfort, though we have little memory of what it is like.
-- Nate
Whither am I bound? What Fate binds me to her bosom? Whose are these diaphanous veils that swirl before me and hinder my every gesture? What viscid muck is this that drags me deeper with every reach? Why are these vibrant eels elusive to my grasp? Why are my striven desires only whetted? When will the solid bough be lowered?
Whence I came to this stagnant place is carted. The fabulous city I set for was nary a day's march. The moors en route seemed but cool mists to refresh the swift traveler. But now is nothing but flitting shadows and chimeras. I chase the pixie forms by day and pant in restless pause by night.
At once a solid shore appeared before me, a peninsular promise of regained ground. A golden copse upon it beckoned me to delve within. For a time, the gracious elves of the wood bestowed manna and petaled cups of fine flavors. Refreshed, I wandered the glade to find the lost trail, but discovered it was but an island. I slept upon its edge and awoke to find peaty bog beneath me and the island drifting away.
All the world is rot and I feed on imps and griffins of my own creation. No pillow stays firm to hold up my head, no strong fingers sooth my aches. No solid ground lifts me from this mire with cobbles to mark my way.
-- Nate
Awake to find the island shore still solid, cobbles fused from the steps of the unbound. Take heed lest the heat of the island sun steal from view the sandy shore and the archipelago on the horizon. Stand, feel the wooded trail beneath your feet. Elves still swim in the peace of the cool waterfall.
-- Karyn
My eyes closed, I kneel to the smooth rocks of my path. Hot from the sun, they warm my palms. The smell of cracked bricks and dusty sand pervades my senses. I cannot yet tell if I have created this myself or whether some benign spirit has seen fit to reveal to me something of what lies ahead. I will walk this path awhile, slowly that I might not disturb the capricious elves or hasten too quickly to navigate the bends. I still the brutish pain within and stroke its furrowed brow. Grasp not for the stars, I say. They will come of their own accord. Soon you shall lie in comfort, though we have little memory of what it is like.
-- Nate
streetlamp
by Karyn Huntting Peters
streetlamp’s lonely glow
in the shadows she calls him
and aches for his touch
streetlamp’s lonely glow
in the shadows she calls him
and aches for his touch
the pianist
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Idle, quiet.
Hands of the pianist
folded sadly, gently in waiting,
patient for touch of cool ivory,
tomorrow yet unknown.
Dreaming, quiet.
Heart of the pianist
filled with visions, feeling of movement,
sensing potential of pure desire,
the morning light to shun.
Stirring, quiet.
Soul of the pianist
grows sensation, vivid in memory,
knowing that vision will soon reveal
the keys beneath his hands.
Idle, quiet.
Hands of the pianist
folded sadly, gently in waiting,
patient for touch of cool ivory,
tomorrow yet unknown.
Dreaming, quiet.
Heart of the pianist
filled with visions, feeling of movement,
sensing potential of pure desire,
the morning light to shun.
Stirring, quiet.
Soul of the pianist
grows sensation, vivid in memory,
knowing that vision will soon reveal
the keys beneath his hands.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
prophetic
by Karyn Huntting Peters
You, o black oil-covered wind!
Heavy rolling in the hot night air, were you
the prophet whose tarry fingerprints and streaks of
viscous moistness covered every third
tomorrow with a bloodless scarlet letter?
Was it you who whispered in the trees as
you caressed and slid over their spring buds?
Was it you who quieted to watch as the rains,
now foreign, beaded to fall from this oil,
this frankincense of the prophet who smelled of spring
as the tree now smelled of the future?
You, o black oil-covered wind!
Heavy rolling in the hot night air, were you
the prophet whose tarry fingerprints and streaks of
viscous moistness covered every third
tomorrow with a bloodless scarlet letter?
Was it you who whispered in the trees as
you caressed and slid over their spring buds?
Was it you who quieted to watch as the rains,
now foreign, beaded to fall from this oil,
this frankincense of the prophet who smelled of spring
as the tree now smelled of the future?
Monday, October 23, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
yesterday’s thorns
by Karyn Huntting Peters
yesterday’s thorns pierce the walls
of me. escape is dreaming. the
light of freedom buried under the weight of
the unspoken, the unanswered. our cell
towers lost, civilization faded, the
morrow only a shrug at best. i came
across time for you, he said before
he was ever born. and he meant it. the
movie hollywood, the man fiction, the
timelessness of love’s hope eternal. we
wrestle with our paradoxes so, the
thorns that tear the flesh that bleeds
within, invisible to that eternal
eye. the rose paid no less a ransom
to bloom in its solitary spring.
yesterday’s thorns pierce the walls
of me. escape is dreaming. the
light of freedom buried under the weight of
the unspoken, the unanswered. our cell
towers lost, civilization faded, the
morrow only a shrug at best. i came
across time for you, he said before
he was ever born. and he meant it. the
movie hollywood, the man fiction, the
timelessness of love’s hope eternal. we
wrestle with our paradoxes so, the
thorns that tear the flesh that bleeds
within, invisible to that eternal
eye. the rose paid no less a ransom
to bloom in its solitary spring.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
converging Lines
by Karyn Huntting Peters
lines.
like threads, hanging in breathless wait.
i hold the ends, wrapping them tightly about my fingers,
one around each, like a kite string.
they are so tiny. they look frail.
they have no color at all,
yet in their clear i can see them.
it must be the light that they draw into them
and lovingly pass back out into the twilight.
a glimmer of something tangible.
lines.
from my fingers they flow to the horizon.
to infinite places they stretch and yearn,
converging in some unknown place.
the road cannot be seen,
but the lines must mark the way.
i hold them in my hands.
the skies begin to grow darker.
harbinger of the coming night.
it is no longer clear just where the lines
stop being separate and start being one,
where my fingers stop and the horizon begins,
where the known stops and eternity begins.
lines.
like threads, hanging in breathless wait.
i hold the ends, wrapping them tightly about my fingers,
one around each, like a kite string.
they are so tiny. they look frail.
they have no color at all,
yet in their clear i can see them.
it must be the light that they draw into them
and lovingly pass back out into the twilight.
a glimmer of something tangible.
lines.
from my fingers they flow to the horizon.
to infinite places they stretch and yearn,
converging in some unknown place.
the road cannot be seen,
but the lines must mark the way.
i hold them in my hands.
the skies begin to grow darker.
harbinger of the coming night.
it is no longer clear just where the lines
stop being separate and start being one,
where my fingers stop and the horizon begins,
where the known stops and eternity begins.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Workday
by Nathan Hays
graphics by Michael Corrado
A cold drift of fog-laden air is pushing through the trees outside my office today. Somewhere a window was left open leaving a chill throughout the building. No one has thought to raise the thermostat and we are complacent in our discomfort. Everyone is going about their business in muted tones with only the trudging cadence of creaking stairs to belie their movements. Today is a work day.
I am reminded of another time when I plodded the snows of Glen Pass in the High Sierra. There too the occasional figure could be seen in the quiet storm, strung out along the trail to the crest a thousand feet above. The footfalls echoed around the bowl to drum the rhythm for all who would pass that way. The oppressive cold and rarified air sapped our reason and will. Only a forgotten purpose drove us on.
This is no unknown country. We know there is a vista beyond and yet another pass beyond that. There are no peaks to master that will give us sight to every corner, no vantage that reveals to us an end. Somewhere, in some swale or on some high pass there is an end, whether we find it by searching or merely tripping over a stubborn root. And so we climb these wretched rocks, wandering, searching, and collecting as many vistas as we can.
graphics by Michael Corrado
A cold drift of fog-laden air is pushing through the trees outside my office today. Somewhere a window was left open leaving a chill throughout the building. No one has thought to raise the thermostat and we are complacent in our discomfort. Everyone is going about their business in muted tones with only the trudging cadence of creaking stairs to belie their movements. Today is a work day.
I am reminded of another time when I plodded the snows of Glen Pass in the High Sierra. There too the occasional figure could be seen in the quiet storm, strung out along the trail to the crest a thousand feet above. The footfalls echoed around the bowl to drum the rhythm for all who would pass that way. The oppressive cold and rarified air sapped our reason and will. Only a forgotten purpose drove us on.
This is no unknown country. We know there is a vista beyond and yet another pass beyond that. There are no peaks to master that will give us sight to every corner, no vantage that reveals to us an end. Somewhere, in some swale or on some high pass there is an end, whether we find it by searching or merely tripping over a stubborn root. And so we climb these wretched rocks, wandering, searching, and collecting as many vistas as we can.
words in vain
by Karyn Huntting Peters
and what when writer's words
no magic left to give
as ancient murals lost
their hues no more to live
yet not for lack of heart
to lend such hue to word
perchance for want of scale
to make heart's music heard
then poet's vain words fall
as tears from yet dry eyes
true meaning hidden e'er
as mysteries of night's skies
and only two will know
these limits of vain art
for only one can sense
the depth in poet's heart
and what when writer's words
no magic left to give
as ancient murals lost
their hues no more to live
yet not for lack of heart
to lend such hue to word
perchance for want of scale
to make heart's music heard
then poet's vain words fall
as tears from yet dry eyes
true meaning hidden e'er
as mysteries of night's skies
and only two will know
these limits of vain art
for only one can sense
the depth in poet's heart
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Demerits
by Karyn Huntting Peters
"Bullshit." He switched off his monitor. "Pure and utter bullshit."
"What do you mean?" She was upset and she knew it showed. "I didn't think it was all that bad."
"That's not stream of consciousness. Stream? You know, stream? Like flowing? That does not flow."
"Flow?"
"Flow. Like a river. Like ink from a pen. Like thoughts through your mind, uncontrolled. Can't you let them flow? Let them flow, and let the flow of the ink be their manifestation in the physical world, their mark."
"Just from the pen? How?"
"Don't think! Jeez. Try closing your eyes. Put a sheet of paper in front of you. Like this. Hold it like this. Feel the pen. Then just write. Easy. Move the pen to the rhythm of your thoughts. Make them one."
"But my lines will be all crooked. What if I go off the edge of the paper? And what about my handwriting? It won't even be readable. I know it will be a huge mess."
"For God's sake. I swear you're a walking block to the flow of everything natural. Just try it, would you?"
"That's not the way I learned. It'd take so much unlearning."
"Then--"
"Unlearn?"
"You're finally learning."
She sighed. "I feel like I'm going to get demerits for not using a straight-edge to make my lines come out even. Does that make sense? I mean lots of demerits. Serious demerits."
He shook his head, stifling a smile.
"What? What is it?" She searched his eyes for an answer.
"About those demerits you're so worried about for not following the rules?"
"Yeah?"
"Let me tell you something. This school is different than the kind you're thinking of. It's called life."
"Okay, life. And?"
"Whoever dies with the most demerits wins."
"Bullshit." He switched off his monitor. "Pure and utter bullshit."
"What do you mean?" She was upset and she knew it showed. "I didn't think it was all that bad."
"That's not stream of consciousness. Stream? You know, stream? Like flowing? That does not flow."
"Flow?"
"Flow. Like a river. Like ink from a pen. Like thoughts through your mind, uncontrolled. Can't you let them flow? Let them flow, and let the flow of the ink be their manifestation in the physical world, their mark."
"Just from the pen? How?"
"Don't think! Jeez. Try closing your eyes. Put a sheet of paper in front of you. Like this. Hold it like this. Feel the pen. Then just write. Easy. Move the pen to the rhythm of your thoughts. Make them one."
"But my lines will be all crooked. What if I go off the edge of the paper? And what about my handwriting? It won't even be readable. I know it will be a huge mess."
"For God's sake. I swear you're a walking block to the flow of everything natural. Just try it, would you?"
"That's not the way I learned. It'd take so much unlearning."
"Then--"
"Unlearn?"
"You're finally learning."
She sighed. "I feel like I'm going to get demerits for not using a straight-edge to make my lines come out even. Does that make sense? I mean lots of demerits. Serious demerits."
He shook his head, stifling a smile.
"What? What is it?" She searched his eyes for an answer.
"About those demerits you're so worried about for not following the rules?"
"Yeah?"
"Let me tell you something. This school is different than the kind you're thinking of. It's called life."
"Okay, life. And?"
"Whoever dies with the most demerits wins."
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
cherry blossoms
by Karyn Huntting Peters
I sometimes start from a dream where
I have left the earth for a time,
forsaking seasons and cherry blossoms and
rain, to find only empty once-filled cups I have
left to dry in a sun-warmed window box.
I sometimes start from a dream where
I have left the earth for a time,
forsaking seasons and cherry blossoms and
rain, to find only empty once-filled cups I have
left to dry in a sun-warmed window box.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
soul hibernation
by Karyn Huntting Peters
the sun, its warmth on my shoulders, the
azure above all a cruelty of a fading Indian
summer. the ugliest colors flit about on the
street, colors of autumn, the harbinger of gray
rainy hibernating souls. deciduous trees will
bear none but tears until spring’s buds come
anew, green and bright.
spring so far off in the distance cannot look
back and see the gathering clouds this day
brings, the flutter of this brittle leaf before me
as it falls ever-so-quietly and pointedly down,
down to the ever-colder and harder ground below.
the sun, its warmth on my shoulders, the
azure above all a cruelty of a fading Indian
summer. the ugliest colors flit about on the
street, colors of autumn, the harbinger of gray
rainy hibernating souls. deciduous trees will
bear none but tears until spring’s buds come
anew, green and bright.
spring so far off in the distance cannot look
back and see the gathering clouds this day
brings, the flutter of this brittle leaf before me
as it falls ever-so-quietly and pointedly down,
down to the ever-colder and harder ground below.
crystal unicorns
by Karyn Huntting Peters
o crystal unicorn!
walk on digital water,
to violet mountains translucent
across the inland sea.
starry, starry night
and the smooth, white stones
are so inviting at water’s edge—
i am wont to stop and contemplate,
but it is all too lucid,
and i watch melancholy
as gentle fingers without a face
take my hand to hold it up—
come, enter the next level,
dream now, eyes open,
o lucid one of the unicorn!
o crystal unicorn!
walk on digital water,
to violet mountains translucent
across the inland sea.
starry, starry night
and the smooth, white stones
are so inviting at water’s edge—
i am wont to stop and contemplate,
but it is all too lucid,
and i watch melancholy
as gentle fingers without a face
take my hand to hold it up—
come, enter the next level,
dream now, eyes open,
o lucid one of the unicorn!
lantern
by Karyn Huntting Peters
how amusing!
these words, formed and
spewed forth as a testament,
in truth but the lamented burning
of a lantern on some
desolate ocean’s cape.
how amusing!
these words, formed and
spewed forth as a testament,
in truth but the lamented burning
of a lantern on some
desolate ocean’s cape.
silent music
by Karyn Huntting Peters
silence
rings within the silhouette of
silences past, moving transparently within
me, its outstretched fingers playing a reminiscent
song of understanding to the
accompaniment of far-off
music.
silence
rings within the silhouette of
silences past, moving transparently within
me, its outstretched fingers playing a reminiscent
song of understanding to the
accompaniment of far-off
music.
Welcome to Victoria
by Karyn Huntting Peters
This is Alex and me not quite four years ago. We were meeting the family in Vancouver, BC, for a Holland America cruise through the Alaskan inside passage. I took Alex up several days early and we hung out together, going to the park, kickin' it in coffee shops, and shopping at the great boutiques in downtown Vancouver. Great exchange rate then.
I found out what a hassle it is to travel solo with an infant. We had to pack for two full weeks, for both summer in British Columbia and a cruise where it could get cold. Just the cruise itself called for two formals (yeah, like they make a tux in size 3-6 months), casual wear, you name it. I packed two weeks' of diapers (that's 140 to be safe, for those who don't know), cans of formula, toys, a huge stroller (which you see here), and the kitchen sink.
Going through the hassle of customs to board the ship was the worst. Ramps, long lines. Papers at the ready. Big honkin' suitcase for mom. Had to bring videos and books and all that, too. Alex's suitcase. Stroller. Big Samsonite diaper bag. The purse to beat all purses. Baby (can't forget the baby). No wheels on Alex's suitcase, and the wheels on mine broke. Grrr. Can you see us on the gangway going bump-bump over every one of those horizontal bumpy things? I was literally kicking the suitcases ahead of us the last quarter mile.
Ah, but me, you know. Independent. I don't need any help, thenkyouverymuch. No, mom and dad, I am not incapable of taking my baby on a vacation to another country and on a cruise. Not a problem at all. They thought I was crazy. When the cruise ended, I stayed another couple of days in Vancouver with Alex, then we drove the car onto the car ferry and headed for Victoria, British Columbia. I love that city. We got a great deal on a hotel, a nice one with roomy accomodations. How, you ask, did I manage that during tourist season?
There was no hotel parking, even for a loading zone. No baggage carts, no nothing. You had to park in the eerily vacant lot two blocks away. At night. Alone. They had no bellhops, no stewards, nothing. I get to the door, finally, after having kicked the suitcases uphill two blocks (now you know how I broke the wheels). I'm sweating like a stuck pig, Alex is hungry, I'm starved, and all we want is to rest and eat. Lovely old elavators in a lovely old building. And you guessed it. Out of order.
Up four (count 'em, four) flights of stairs. Suitcases, diaper bag, purse, stroller, baby, and a lot of really bad swear words coming out of my mouth. It could have been worse. The three employees standing around in the lobby (the ones who would not help us, even when I offered to pay them) could have refrained from smiling and saying, "Welcome to Victoria!"
Key in door, bags on floor. Back down four flights of stairs with baby and paraphenalia. Restaurant? Closed at 5:00 pm. F**king son of a b**ch! Naughty traveller. Naughty. Bad mommy. Nothing open for blocks, and that's as far as I can go. Truly. The nice, nice employees let me exchange some American dollars for those looney things that work in the Canadian vending machines. Stale candy bars for dinner. Yum.
But hey, it was worth it. I could afford it, and it had been a rough six months as a single mom. I needed a vacation. Boy, this was the life. Actually, aside from Hotel California and the fact that there was no food in sight, it was good. I love Victoria.
This is Alex and me not quite four years ago. We were meeting the family in Vancouver, BC, for a Holland America cruise through the Alaskan inside passage. I took Alex up several days early and we hung out together, going to the park, kickin' it in coffee shops, and shopping at the great boutiques in downtown Vancouver. Great exchange rate then.
I found out what a hassle it is to travel solo with an infant. We had to pack for two full weeks, for both summer in British Columbia and a cruise where it could get cold. Just the cruise itself called for two formals (yeah, like they make a tux in size 3-6 months), casual wear, you name it. I packed two weeks' of diapers (that's 140 to be safe, for those who don't know), cans of formula, toys, a huge stroller (which you see here), and the kitchen sink.
Going through the hassle of customs to board the ship was the worst. Ramps, long lines. Papers at the ready. Big honkin' suitcase for mom. Had to bring videos and books and all that, too. Alex's suitcase. Stroller. Big Samsonite diaper bag. The purse to beat all purses. Baby (can't forget the baby). No wheels on Alex's suitcase, and the wheels on mine broke. Grrr. Can you see us on the gangway going bump-bump over every one of those horizontal bumpy things? I was literally kicking the suitcases ahead of us the last quarter mile.
Ah, but me, you know. Independent. I don't need any help, thenkyouverymuch. No, mom and dad, I am not incapable of taking my baby on a vacation to another country and on a cruise. Not a problem at all. They thought I was crazy. When the cruise ended, I stayed another couple of days in Vancouver with Alex, then we drove the car onto the car ferry and headed for Victoria, British Columbia. I love that city. We got a great deal on a hotel, a nice one with roomy accomodations. How, you ask, did I manage that during tourist season?
There was no hotel parking, even for a loading zone. No baggage carts, no nothing. You had to park in the eerily vacant lot two blocks away. At night. Alone. They had no bellhops, no stewards, nothing. I get to the door, finally, after having kicked the suitcases uphill two blocks (now you know how I broke the wheels). I'm sweating like a stuck pig, Alex is hungry, I'm starved, and all we want is to rest and eat. Lovely old elavators in a lovely old building. And you guessed it. Out of order.
Up four (count 'em, four) flights of stairs. Suitcases, diaper bag, purse, stroller, baby, and a lot of really bad swear words coming out of my mouth. It could have been worse. The three employees standing around in the lobby (the ones who would not help us, even when I offered to pay them) could have refrained from smiling and saying, "Welcome to Victoria!"
Key in door, bags on floor. Back down four flights of stairs with baby and paraphenalia. Restaurant? Closed at 5:00 pm. F**king son of a b**ch! Naughty traveller. Naughty. Bad mommy. Nothing open for blocks, and that's as far as I can go. Truly. The nice, nice employees let me exchange some American dollars for those looney things that work in the Canadian vending machines. Stale candy bars for dinner. Yum.
But hey, it was worth it. I could afford it, and it had been a rough six months as a single mom. I needed a vacation. Boy, this was the life. Actually, aside from Hotel California and the fact that there was no food in sight, it was good. I love Victoria.
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