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breeden
ursulav

(no subject)

The Middle East is historically a hotbed of all kinds of trouble, and I think in the U.S., even leaving aside Dubya's recent schtick, there's a lot of sort've undirected hostility at the entire region, which runs the gamut between thinly-veiled racism, and an exasperated "For the love of god, can't you people just get along!?"

However, out've that region, in addition to such niceties as the zero, astronomy, and a lot of the roots of Western civilization, came what I think is some of the finest poetry ever written, the works of the dervish Rumi, one of which I tripped over more or less at random a few hours ago, which caused me to renew my love-affair with the man's words.

You have said what you are.
I am what I am.
Your actions in my head,
my head here in my hands
with something circling inside.
I have no name
for what circles
so perfectly.

I could go on and on, but I won't, except to say that everybody owes themselves a read through the works of Rumi, either on-line or if you happen to pick up the spectacular 'Unseen Rain' collection. My parents read his poetry at their wedding. He was one of the greats, and he could do it in a dozen lines or less, too.

breeden
ursulav

(no subject)

More things that should have words, but don't--for example, the nagging guilt when you have failed to update your webpage recently. Or the nagging guilt mixed with vague defiance when you have failed to update your webcomic in the last week. Then, of course, we'd need a word for the short-lived sense of relieved accomplishment when you actually churn out a page, although it's so short lived that, like many super-heavy elements with twenty syllable names, it's only possible to detect it by the by-products it leaves after blinking out of existence.

Regardless, those by-products could currently be detected in my vicinity, if one had an electron microscope, say; and a particularly agonizing dungeon crawl in this morning's gaming session allowed me to storyboard out the next five pages of my comic "Irrational Fears." Now I just need a word for that sinking sensation that occurs when you realize that what was originally gonna be a ten or fifteen page lark is steaming toward thirty pages. Still, a story takes as long as it takes, sometimes longer, particularly, when you have no bloody idea what you're doing. (But it's all worth it for that equally nameless, but warm and fuzzy, deeply astonished feeling when total strangers come up to you and say "Man, I love the thing with the chupacabra!")

The latest installment of that thing with the chupacabra