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Pokemon Rant on PaulWhy I Hate Paul
The Paul I am referring to is a character in the pokemon anime, who is currently Ash's primary rival while the group is in the Sinnoh region. Paul is really a varied character: on the Serebii.net forums, the Paul character discussion thread has, at the time of writing, nearly spans twenty pages, though most of it is saying how "awesome" he is. However, I do not think he is awesome. I hate him more than I hate Harley from the same show. I want to strangle Paul and break one of his limbs. Most probably won't know why I feel this way, so I will explain.
First, Pokemon are sentient beings in this setting. As Linkara pointed out in his review of "Captain Planet and the Planeteers #3," if animals were truly intelligent enough to make their own decisions and follow orders, animals would easily be given rights. Considering that many pokemon in this setting are shown to be smart enough to qualify, pokemon should have a bill of rights. In the real world, Paul's trea
To Build A Human
I wonder if I died last night.
I once wondered if I had died the night before. And that's not even the strangest thought I had that fateful day. But perhaps I should start from the beginning
I had been thinking about the troubling philosophical issue regarding the hypothetical teleportation device that uses quantum entanglement to instantaneously transfer data, then uses that data to exactly replicate the individual in the new place and simultaneously destroy the original. The new copy is like a twin with all the same memories of the original, right up to the event of the teleportation, creating a perfect illusion of transportation to everyone, including the replicant, who would have first person memory of the lifetime of the original and therefore believe himself to be the original. The only party for whom this fax machine from hell fails is the original, who is stifled by nonexistence.
So how can one be certain of this tragic flaw without experiencing it fi
Sometimes You Don't Have to Change the WorldAres is not what I imagined her to be. The great man of myth, muscular and imposing, shining in his armour, with crested helmet and mighty spear, does not stand before me. Instead I face a young woman, hardly more than a girl. She is soft and delicate, with eyes so large they will soak up the world, and skin like spun glass, that glitters in the darkness. A warm glow radiates from within her, not quite visible, but strong enough for me to feel the heat on my face.
The sound of traffic wafts up to us from the street far below. Heavy clouds block out the night sky, reflecting back the poisonous orange of streetlamps and office blocks. The rooftop is high above it all, and we are invisible. That’s why I chose it, to be alone. The last thing I expected was a visitor, proclaiming to be a god.
“Ares?” I scoff, looking her over with something I imagine to be petulance. If not for the fact that she was so decidedly un-human, and that she had materialised on the rooftop with n
We share the blueberries Mama left for us, the juice staining our fingers and our lips. We eat them with the solidarity that figure skating partners would give their perfect souls for, and in the ecstasy of our union stained with blues and purples like the hues of the skies just before sunset, we are content. It is 1984 and we are barely able to comprehend anything but each other.
"You need friends," Mama whispers with her venom-like breath and her love belied by her lack of understanding. She does not understand. We have friends. We are friends. The simple harmony and the symmetry that breaks only with the soft marring of birthmarks on my inner thighs is more than enough for us. We do not need "others".
The first "other" Jezzie and I turn away is a cousin, a frail, blonde little thing with eyes as dark as a the juice on our hands. With her dark little eyes she watches us as we sit alone on the window bench, wrapped up in the tissue paper world of the peach blossoms outside the
and it came on in waves.
Big Sur was a name that lived in the mouths of surfers and the words of Jack Kerouac and Henry Miller. Spontaneity drove me to this place as I ventured away from the Los Angeles wasteland back to the Silicon graveyard called home. The boredom of business for a whole week might have been the true cause. I'm never one not to take an adventure.
But California natives drove smart. To cross from one side of the state to the other, you took I-5 or 101. We laughed at the idiots who took the "scenic route" for pleasure, not for business. You only took Highway 1 to access the beaches. With the twists and turns, possible motion sickness, mudslides, rockslides, fog and constant construction, Highway 1 was a tourist's wake-up call-- not all is sunny-sexy in the Golden state. Seeing as I lived four years away from home, where the Northeast's transportation circulatory system pulses strong, fast and easy, I did an un-native thing and turned off at Pismo Beach for Highway 1.
Driving this road a few h
Me and My Shadowi.
My shadow slips to silence among the aquatic acacias. Even here, leaves abound, draped over the fuzz-curves of his figure as he soaks up the moonlight. Papa's soft voice turns my gaze to the moon. Remember, Carlos, our shadows are but imprints of the moon. Remember the Eclipse. I shiver and hold onto an acacia branch. I'm careful not to let my shadow near the shoreline where sea meets sand. That's why acacias are aquatic; they drowned their fate with the sea, Papa says. We cannot, we must not let it be our shadow's fate. We are nothing without our shadows. And yet the tide sweeps towards my toes as the moon charioteers across the silver nightscape. I leap back onto the thorns, onto the blue leaves and pray my shadow seeks dry ground. Sometimes he doesn't pay attention.
My shadow ripples to the privacy of the umbrellas. Some aquatic acacias were born like that, shaped like the human plastic as though it would dispel their liquefied sin. I think about joining him, bu
The 13 Blessings of SheogorathFor Our Lord Sheogorath, without Whom all Thought would be linear and all Feeling would be fleeting.
Blessed are the Madmen, for they hold the keys to secret knowledge.
Blessed are the Phobic, always wary of that which would do them harm.
Blessed are the Obsessed, for their courses are clear.
Blessed are the Addicts, may they quench the thirst that never ebbs.
Blessed are the Murderous, for they have found beauty in the grotesque.
Blessed are the Firelovers, for their hearts are always warm.
Blessed are the Artists, for in their hands the impossible is made real.
Blessed are the Musicians, for in their ears they hear the music of the soul.
Blessed are the Sleepless, as they bask in wakeful dreaming.
Blessed are the Paranoid, ever-watchful for our enemies.
Blessed are the Visionaries, for their eyes see what might be.
Blessed are the Painlovers, for in their suffering, we grow stronger.
Blessed is the Madgod, who tricks us when we are foolish, punishes us when we are wrong, tortures us
Open Your MindOpen your mind
Turn it off, relax, and flow downstream
You are walking along a gravel path, bumpy and uneven due to its little use. Green foliage, wooden bark of great trees, all of these surround you as you walk down the path, absent minded, thinking only of whatever your journey may bring, and not caring about whatever that may be. You take a deep breath, greeted by the scent of chlorophyll and pollen, and the undeniable anti-smell of clean air. You can hear the sounds of nature around you, chirps, calls, scuttling paws, even just the rustle of branches against each other, and bushes against the grass. The greenery surrounding you reflects your current feelings, satisfied, content; you feel as though nothing can go wrong.
Though inside you have an unpleasant feeling, one that you find yourself unable to name. Is it unhappiness? Is it yearning? Is it regret? Is it more than one? These questions swirl through your head, as your feet trail down the path. At firs
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all