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I am currently reading Nassim I am currently reading Nassim Nicholas Taleb's "The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbably."
The term comes from the European belief that all swans are white since that's the only kind they had ever seen. Then the British began exploring Australia and what do they find?
Taleb refers to Black Swan Events. An event that is so improbable that it can't be fit in the traditional Bell Shaped Curved. I'm just getting a good start into his work, but he's a good read. So far, he is making the argument that these BSEs...to create my own acronym...are the driving force behind history. That human history doesn't just roll along nice and smooth with one event being caused by preceeding events and then, when it has happed becomes the cause of other events.
He rather argues that history does not grow logically and rationally, but rather is a sequence of unpredictable leaps caused by unpredicatable events: Black Swans.
He uses 9/11 as an example as well as the emergence of the In
Fred died tonight. We rescuedFred died tonight.
We rescued him from a family that was calling him Bocephus...Hank Williams Jr...of course, we took one look at him and said there is no way this bassett hound....this big lumbering short legged hound dog with ears that hadn't gotten the memo yet and were still long enough to stir the dust and waft the scent up to that CSI Superfly Noze of his. You see, bassetts are according to legend bred from full sized blue tic hound with a Dachsund or some dog with short legs. They are short, but still are classified with the big dogs.
We both took one look at him and as soon as we drove away from the family that had to get rid of him because of a landlord we looked at each other and said, "There is no way in hell this dog is going to be able to pull off Bosephus. I can't remember which one of us came up with it but the name, once spoken aloud was his and his forever and that was...
We brought him home seven or eight years ago and we weren't sure how ol
from karl marx to pale jesus from karl marx to pale jesus
i don’t want you to
accept my beliefs
i want you to question your own
why should i care
if here and there
there were little phil jarrett clones?
make up your mind
but not like you make
the bed in the morning you leave
all tightly tucked corners
with no room for doubt
is no way for a man to believe
furl flags on the ramparts
paste poems on your prius
and blog till your bloggin’ content
these words that you mutter
you might as well utter
so pull up your thesaurus and vent
from riots to revolution
there’s no easy solution
left untried then put up on the shelf
from karl marx to pale jesus
there’s a repeating thesis
the only change you can make is yourself
in the air
this one here
just disappeared with a pop
and this one is dripping
some sort of soap snot
let’s be real
it’s not soap that you feel!
it’s the Hollowness in your Heart
There is so much that cannot bThere is so much that cannot be explained. You want it to be simple. This happened, then this, then this and finally this. But life never falls in straight lines. Life is a maze the solution to which is never revealed until the last turn is taken, the last line is drawn. People demand of you what you cannot give. They want to know the solution before you have plotted the course. They want the security of knowing that the writer, the author, knows the ending and is guiding them, step by step, through the process that will eventually lead to this ending.
They don't know you. They see you as some guide, some leader they can follow. But you aren't a leader. You are struggling to keep up with the images, the ideals, that pour into your brain unbidden. They want to believe in you and when they discover they cannot they blame you. You are at fault because you cannot give them the reassurance they are so desperatly seeking
Is it all right to do nothingIs it all right to do nothing with you life?
Simple question. What harm would come if you simply woke up in the morning and went to work then came home at night and enjoyed yourself? Working, of course, is an essential aspect of living. If you want to have a place to come home to that is your own, where you can be alone, then you have to work to make the money necessary to sustain you own life. You may not want to, you may find ways of getting around working. But experience has taught me that living off other people in some way, shape or form is always more complicated than simply working. I call this the 168/40 ratio. There are 168 hours in a week. If you work 40 of those hours, then you are left with 128 hours to do with as you please. It isn't a bad deal, when you think of it in those terms. In order to make this 168/40 ratio work, you need to get your self-esteem needs met in the 128 hours you have to yourself. If your sel
wishing wells and pumpkin shells
coffee with mint cream
wedding bells and magic spells
life is but a dream
mother says it's rain today
drought's been sixteen years
pigs will fly and cats will stray
seventeen brings tears
hooting owls and leopard prowls
burn the midnight sun
men with jowls eat fattened cows
never had such fun
father says it's time to go
new year's 'round the bend
can't be late for nature's show
fish-face now the trend
dreamer's dream and lover's love
wishing time would fly
blue moonbeam on heaven's dove
hope I never die
I Fell AsleepI fell asleep
In the arms of the enemy.
My worst mistake,
As I let his words get to me.
I left my life
In the hands of a killer.
I trusted my blood
To a man who's a murderer.
I closed my eyes
As he lulled me away.
I loosened my grip
As he began to sway.
I fell asleep
In the arms of the enemy.
I lost my life,
but I lost my life willingly.
Needle of the PineYou're a needle of the pine, my dear -
a poking of the spine, a narrow rod
to gently prod my heart in waters brine.
And when I fall, you pull me tall
to bask in heaven's shrine, for what you are
'tis not sub-par, my needle of the pine.
Without MythologiesWithout Mythologies
If I could, I would make you a raging river,
With angry rapids supplied with rain
So you could always meander, and forever be able to run away
Without contending with myths wrongly interpreted - with pain.
- John K. Samson
We’re watching the sun drown in a lake,
your eyes are far away and you say you wish
you were the wind.
You stretch out your arms like tired old wings,
and say you hope one day the sky
will just swallow you up. In that last sliver
of light, I tell you that you have it all wrong.
You could never be something so invisible as wind,
(It’s cool breathe makes us shiver,)
If I could, I would make you a raging river.
I’d turn your fingertips to salty spray,
your bones to smooth
Your lips would kiss the ocean each day,
your gut would fill with fish and frogs.
Your fidgeting toes never forced still again.
I’d turn your heart into a waterfall,
And last of all I’d make
those rushing waters from your brain,
Solitary Mind of Connected MadnessI see a sliver in the outskirts of eyes,
Tripping on madness, of madness this ride
Is, a circus of freaks. And there's no place to move,
And no place to breathe there's no room it's
My mind pressing mirrors upon mirrors and halls,
Palms touching nothing but heat-slicken claws,
And bent are the fractures of twitches of dream,
And fragmented truths of escaped tragedy.
Sobbing are soldiers not laid seige to a cheek,
Fools that are weary, held back as they're freed,
And o how the merry-go-round spins its tales,
Moving forward, neverending, on circling trails.
Succumb to the effervescence of thrilling deceit,
Believe when you don't, acceptance is key,
Be lost with the timeless, unwavering charm,
In circles, not touching skin, all arm in arm.
I see a world on a sliver of fire,
Tripping on madness, on madness on wire,
Is it I'm slipping at the edge of a hope?
It's time to accept we're together
The real meaning of friendshipFriendship
Kidding around turns into
Remembering painful times
Ignoring the painful truth that lies ahead
Ending all hope
Never finding any good in it
Demanding they be there for you but they never
Seem to keep their promise of staying
Heartache and loneliness always comes at the end
Insightful friends are nothing but a myth
Promises broken and pitying oneself
In MorningThrough a wintry window laced with ice, lie
petrified panes of frosted grass beckoning,
languorously outstretched. A shivering bird’s cry
reaches horizon’s edge—that razor reckoning,
those impossible dimensions—hung like a kite
on a cloud, precipitously balanced between a dull
existence with poking pinpricks the only light,
and the embers of potential, slowly stoking. A lull
unfurls, a quiet eternity uncurling in that predawn
chill, everything faded to silent sepia, frozen
as though this instant is more important, torn
from time and left right where it was chosen
to be. Light spills over and creeps through
fractured, flinty sky turned a clear, unbroken blue.
SanityThe walls of this place were white,
Sanitation and cleanliness were no doubt at play.
Walking through them I search for the light,
Lost forever in this building, searching for the day,
The one where I would no longer be lost.
The rooms were empty,
Not a soul but for the ones at rest.
I wouldn’t say I felt guilty,
But what I had done, I would address,
And realize my action’s cost.
Continuing through these halls,
I can’t help but look at the paint.
I remember the red smears on the walls,
The copper scent lingering still and faint,
Yet luckily those memories I tossed.
I pass on, leaving behind this phenomenon.
I see a shred of the sun’s rays,
And quickly I leave my role of false surgeon.
Behind me the blood of my past lays,
Leaving it to the cold and frost.
Tick TockTick tock goes the clock
It's all a little hazy,
Tick tock she's in shock
The girl that we call Lacey
Little lines cut her neck
But no one wants to see them
All her friends wish she were dead
But no one wants to be them
One or two can make it through
The Hell that she lives in
But nothing that they say is true
So no one can believe it
Her life is just a bunch of rags
There's nothing that can save her
Her breathing comes in heavy drags
Each saying "You Deciever"
Tick tock goes the clock
It's all a little hazy
Tick tock she's a rock
The body we call Lacey
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More