Either you are sorting it out, or you are full of it.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Kings and Queens of the Wallflowers

You have sat at the edge of parties

Calling out the names of the various faces

That swaggered at you in their drunken haze

Fondling the passions of their hearts before you

Tossing them like dice carelessly

Letting them fall where they may

Taking chance for a blushing debutante

Ripe for the ramming

While you sat there with your passions

Held in your hands

Examining them like sacred saphires

Wanting to determine their every flow and crack

Before hewing them into preciousness

Wearing them upon your crown

As you went out upon the world

Praying that that moment

Would be your coronation.

posted by ferret at 10:51 am  

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Lighting the Lamp

There was an old philosophy buddy of mine who I ran into several years after we had studied together in university. Someone told me he was a DJ. Someone told me he had been floating for years now, living a life of contemplation and drugs. He asked me plainly, “What is the right way to live?” I found myself speechless. I had spent so long away from that question that I didn’t know how to answer. At the time, part of me was ashamed.

Even now, I still feel like I can’t answer it, but I don’t feel ashamed. I now know why I can’t answer it. I feel I can only answer this question with another question. With many questions. How to describe them?

I think of Socrates, and I think of spelunking. Socrates instilled in his finest students a love for caves. But Socrates never gave us the light for them. He gave us a lamp, a lit lamp, but with little fuel. Socrates was weak and feeble.

These questions are the lamp, requiring other things, other questions, which occasionally produce brief, momentary bursts of light.

We hoot and holler into the darkness crying, “Where are the matches? Where is the flint? Where is the flame?”

posted by ferret at 6:10 pm  

Monday, May 10, 2010

False Start #43

I believe that people have souls in spite of the snickers and cries from hard-headed materialists in the back of the room whose neurological pathways keep them from participating in this illusion that I call a soul, that I call my life-blood, that I call myself.

What would you reductionists not take from your own breath? You know, the one that gasps ineffectual innocence even as it breathes it in?

posted by ferret at 7:02 pm  

Sunday, May 9, 2010


[Ferret, Badger and Weasel are hanging out. Badger takes out an exceptionally long sized snickers bar and begins to open it.]


That’s a big snickers bar.


It’s two of the small ones put together in one package, so…


Oh, I see. Yeah, I guess that makes sense because it’s so small.


You know it has to do with penis size, right?


What does?


A snickers bar.


No, it doesn’t.


Yes, it does.


That doesn’t make any sense.


Of course it does. Every single country has a different sized snickers bar. All of the sizes are based on the penis sizes of people in that country. So like Chinese snickers bars are smaller, while the ones in Africa are bigger.


What? Really?


He’s fucking with you.


No, I’m not.


How can you believe that? No, listen, he’s just fucking with us.


Yeah, I don’t believe you.


Think about it. When you go to grab it off the shelf, whether you are a guy or a girl the size of a penis is comfortable. You want to grab it. That’s the difference. It’s what makes the sale. There are people who get paid to think about this, and they found that making snickers bars penis sized just works. That’s why I’ve got two small snickers bars together instead of a big one.


What? Like two small Chinese penises?



posted by ferret at 3:41 pm  

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

New Words: Stoat and Tabard



posted by ferret at 2:07 am  

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Ruins of St. Paul’s

The Ruins of St. Paul’s left me with a strange feeling:

It’s the remains of a church in Macao, burned to the ground in the 19th century, which have been tastefully adorned by several Portuguese architects and plenty of money before the Portuguese returned the city to China. I suppose it makes sense, making the last vestiges of their rule into a ruin for tourists to gawk at. This is how the legacies of all rulers and conquerors end – names on stones constantly beset by flashbulbs, peace-signing, giggling tour groups, and the endless rattle of trinket sellers.

That’s not to say that this place is no longer holy, no longer the site of interesting and varied religious rites. Of course, most people participating in this religion have no idea that they are participating in it. But such is the power of this religion.

It is most visible when you walk inside the remains of the crypt. It’s a small unattended room at the back of the complex, visited by only the most inquisitive of travelers. The once dark and damp repository of bones is now a bright room of granite, illuminated by a giant skylight from above. There are two levels to it, one more of a balcony, the other a pit. It’s like a theater. It makes you feel as if you are at a performance.

Sure, the trappings of Christianity are there, too. An emaciated, black, cast-iron cross sits in the light above, next to what appears to be a black collection box, with a cross for a handle, inlaid almost as an afterthought. They have Gregorian chants looped on loudspeakers hung overhead. The bones of Japanese martyrs lie in the walls encased in glass. They do not bear resemblance to anything human. They could be the legs of cattle or pigs. Oh, there’s still some sort of traditional reverence for them here, I suppose, but it’s stretched as thin as the cross before me.

When I walk on the balcony, I notice the spread of coins out upon the remains of the masonry, everywhere obscuring the stone that lies beneath, outshining the cross, focusing my attention away from the music. If this is a holy place, where people come to remember and pray, then they do so by throwing coins.

I throw two, chucking them like little frisbees, aiming for the flattest, best preserved parts. I miss both times, but I love it all the same.

What do I think while I throw these coins?

I don’t. I think only about the thrill of throwing, about the light of the moment, the weight of the coin in my hand.

It’s an amusement, harmless, quiet, free.

This is how I participate in the world’s newest religion, throwing money in the amphitheaters of ruins, filled with the icons and martyrs of the past.

posted by ferret at 9:42 pm  

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