February 24th, 2002


blah, blah, blah ... another poem ... blah, blah, blah ...

OK, so would it surprise anybody that I'm "not a happy camper" today? No ... of course not ... and, realistically, is there anybody (aside from my daughters) that the fact of me being miserable has any effect on? Probably not. So ... why should I even bother reporting it here? Ah, I guess that leads back into the "what purpose does an on-line journal serve" debate. Bleh. Aside from all the on-going SHIT that is my life these days, I can find two "triggers" for why I'm feeling like shit ... one is that The Wife is all hopped up to have "a family meeting" today ... while this purports to be for getting everybody "on the same page" in preparation for the big changes next month (my starting school and her starting a new job), there is never any good that comes out of these sorts of things ... they are always going to be stress-fests. Secondly, on a mailing list I'm on for metaphysical writers and publishers I answered a question about the current state of Eschaton with an extensive over-view of the struggles we've been having, both corporately and for me personally ... so far I got one response to that ... which leaves me in that "why the fuck do I even bother" state of feeling like I could set my hair on fire and still be totally ignored by 99% of the people around me. Double bleh.

Anyway, got another poem ground out yesterday. This one (fairly obviously) didn't quite ever fall into synch, the words and the source states never got together the way I'd like ... but if I'm going to be writing a LOT, I guess I need to cut myself some slack for ones that go "thud". By the way ... I uploaded the past couple of week's worth up on the archive site ... http://i.am/btripp ... last night, so you can go read some better stuff there.

                    VECTORS OF DESCENT

                    translated absence
                    in structures of pain
                    unwilling aspect
                    held to the wheel
                    drowning in chaos
                    smothered by time
                    unable to function
                    unfit for desire

                    through this grey
                    uncertain haze
                    we spiral down
                    drawn by gravities
                    and uncharted planes
                    no way to measure
                    no way to gauge
                    these vectors of descent

                    so much known
                    in so many frames
                    but none that synch
                    with the mundane world
                    which values naught
                    of all we are
                    and all the things
                    we hold inside

                    we drift towards escape
                    on the only free route
                    the one leading
                    deeper towards the core,
                    further from their world;
                    and in that drift
                    we grow stranger
                    and more estranged

                    the pattern imposed
                    upon these days
                    demands new functions
                    and unfamiliar states
                    we can not know
                    how this plays out
                    how these shifts
                    rearrange or destroy

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

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Snapshot of what is wrong ...

OK ... so, we're in Church, singing a number (from the always interesting Unitarian Universalist hymnal) "Every Night and Every Morn" which had a very familiar lyric: "Some are Born to sweet delight, Some are Born to Endless Night." (familiar to me from "End Of The Night" by the Doors). Struck by this, I look to see who the author was, and it said William Blake, the lyrics being adapted from his "Auguries of Innocence" (Blake, of course, has been an inpsiration for many before Jim Morrison, and many after). I find this interesting, and at the end of the hymn, I nudge The Wife and point at where it says "William Blake". To which she responds: "Who is William Blake?".


Now, I'll admit, that my day-to-day mental and verbal yakety-yak sounds a bit like a Dennis Miller rant ("Stop me before I sub-reference again!"), but the CONCEPT of a college educated (heck, with a Masters degree and all) 40-something gal like The Wife not KNOWING who William Blake is seems to be a cultural lacuna of abysmal proportions! Maybe this is a big problem with things around here ... we're living in whole different universes.

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