Insignificant Earth

I got this message the other day, sent anonymously, and I thought I should share it.

Insignificant Earth

Silly Earthlings. One could almost pity you were it not for your massive ego and arrogance. Or is it ignorance? For a species that considers itself intelligent and self-actualized you really have no clue. No clue how blessed you are to inhabit that jewel of the universe. Of course, your civilization has only been around for a few thousand years and your progress is nowhere near your projected potential. This statement will not include everybody, as there are a few aware humans that are climbing the uphill struggle of self-preservation, but these are rare within your population. And in a population approaching over seven billion it's going to take more than the few to make any realistic difference. Those that do fight are managing to buy the rest of you a small amount of time and it is not enough. If one billion Earthlings decided to change their ways and dedicated their entire lives to fighting for long term survival, the task would still eventually face near impossible odds. However, it would buy you all more time, which is one of the many concepts you clutch to too closely, and this is something your species will discover, perhaps sooner than you would like.

It's hard to think of something as big and vast as a planet as a fragile thing, but in reality your position as a species couldn't be more delicate. Everything, from it's position in relation to your nearest sun, to the speed of it's rotation, is the perfect combination to support humanity and other forms of life, while the most minute of changes could have catastrophic results. To my species' amazement, it appears that with this in mind mankind is actively trying to destroy its planet faster.

The simple fact is that the Earth's life span is not that long under the best of conditions. Not in cosmic terms. It may appear to be an eternity compared to the average human life span, but in relation to the universe, a few million years is not that long at all. All stars must eventually burn out, no matter how powerful they may be, and your sun is no different. It is an amazing star nonetheless and because it has been around as long as you can remember, you humans do not seem to know how lucky you are to actually have it. Earthlings are a fiercely weak species and the sun has supported you for some time now. The least you can do is keep your planet running long enough until it can bow out of the spotlight gracefully.

As an example of the pure unlikeliness of life in general, we need look no further than your own solar system. Of the eight planets in the galaxy you have deemed 'the Milky Way,' only one of them is capable of supporting life in almost any form; that includes the satellites you know as moons. The proof lies in the mere miles that separate Earth from the scorching inferno of Mercury, where a small amount of microscopic life does exist but it is doubtful that Earthling technology will ever discover this anytime soon. It is also quite apparent in the real mystery of the system, Venus, with gasses so noxious hidden within its core that if the planet ever exploded, or leaked significantly, all life would be destroyed in several galaxies. Proof also lies in the tragedy of Mars, which according to your evolution progression rate, should have you just beginning to explore and learn of Her secrets around the time that you receive this message. It is our society's belief that the eventual revelation of the Martian story will have a dramatic impact on the thought process of the human race. But time will tell all truths.

Any species capable of evolving and forward thinking must use the resources and raw materials available to them when they begin to develop a method of life and society. However, the fact that this will lead to the dissolution of the planet itself must register with those who have the power to draw up a solution to the problem. Recognizing the problem is not good enough; measures must be taken long before you find yourselves running out of supplies. If there was an emergency and a created solution failed in any way your species would need a vast supply of food and fuel to fall back on.

That is considering that the planet lasts long enough for it's resources to be depleted. My species is not, nor has it ever been, the smartest in the universe, and we have two of the thought organs you would call a brain. Through the exhaustive research we have been able to complete thus far, we have catalogued the destruction of some twelve thousand, three hundred and twenty-one life bearing planets and the outlook does not look good. There is an uncountable and ever-growing number of ways a planet's life can end. The impact of a sizable chunk of space debris, the burnout of a head star, self destruction via war, and even invasion are just a few, and not the worst ones at that.

My contemporaries continue to taunt my efforts to send a message to Earth. They call it a pointless and unworthy exercise and I'm not sure I entirely disagree with them. In the vastness of the universe, Earth matters very little, in fact your entire solar system will have close to no historical impact according to our psychics and their records. However, it is almost always the tiny and insignificant things that can yield the best results simply because they are overlooked. So I believe that it is not a waste of time to send out this warning to your planet, and it is in all of our best interests that your leaders heed it. Because if there is one thing that surprises me about Earth and it's inhabitants it would be human potential. I have noticed sparks of greatness deeply ingrained within you all and it's time you realized this for yourselves. The potential lies within to change, not only your own world, but others as well. There are times when one must force themselves to have significance and if any species can I have faith that it is yours.

Sent in peace,
X

From The Lab

The Obstruction

While forging these forgotten drops of gold,
Still surprised to be howling in the dark,
Toiling for a small, random work of art,
That warm my hands from the desolate cold,
With letters and phrases I sadly stole,
To avoid the chum and swim with the sharks.

That unexpected happiness creeps in,
As I have no control over the reins,
And beats back the cynic, destroys the pain,
Back to places where men mumble and cringe,
Stumbling through darkness, tripping upon sin,
Leaving only a child, afraid and lame.

The pressures of oxygen build on me,
So I stifle the accidental breath,
Clearing that air locked deep within my chest,
Fighting the inclination to believe
That poison will burn and my veins still bleed,
But reckless men don't know of cautious steps.

Vision is shady in the fearful fog,
My sense of direction is all but gone,
Lost amongst the brute masses of the dawn,
Withholding that grave urge to get involved,
A moral question, as yet to be solved,
Stuck in the muck of the need to belong.

Tossing & Turning: Thoughts that keep me up at night

The White Gene

I want everybody to take a second, close their eyes, and imagine all of the streakers, sky divers, and bungee jumpers you've ever seen. Think of all of those images you've come across in your lifetime and all of the times that person has been black, latino, or asian. What's that? Zero times? Shocking.

What is it within the white gene that drives a person to take off their clothes and run through public, tie a rubber band around their waist and jump from a bridge, or leap out of an aircraft with a sheet in a backpack, (and sometimes all three), just for kicks? Whatever this look-at-me, closeness to death feeling is, why does no other race seem to pursue it in these ways? I wonder if it's just that living regular everyday life can be thrilling enough for minorities, so they don't feel the need to go out of their way to seek it. I don't know, but I'm stumped. As always, feel free to leave your opinion in the comments.

From The Lab

Wind Walkers

Footsteps on the fluff,
Bits of the Nimbus stuck on the heel
Like toilet paper, trailing off,
A breadcrumb path revealing
Past crossroads chosen.

Hidden within the high fog,
Nestled in a bed of imaginary
Imaginings, they drift along,
Silent as a folding wing.

High within their misty haunts,
Numerous eagle-eyes observe
The long grounded species.

Hear the silent chuckles
Floating on the breeze,
These are the Wind Walkers'
Words, mocking the races
That are beneath them and Beneath them,
In all possible ways.
Call it arrogance if you will,
But who's to say that confident things
Do not have confident falls?

From The Lab

Underground Crown

In kingdoms built of ancient dreamer's lies,
Demolished, sadly, by a careless thought,
Though supported by all with depth to try
To separate themselves and seek what's sought,
Which, buried deep, confirms untold delights,
Away from standard wishes, goals, and wants.
Here, far below in everlasting night,
Shine stars from memory's familiar haunts,
And self appointed kings in darkness thrive,
Unseen by those without third-eye belief,
To knight themselves as lords of their own lives
And reach for goals before the chance has ceased;
Let nonbelievers plant heels in the ground,
And I shall stay where royalty is crowned.

Top 5: Transformers (G1)

Top 5: Transformers (Generation 1)

In anticipation of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, (which despite it's bad reviews is still going to be guaranteed eye candy), I've compiled a list of my favorite morphing robots, (of which I know at least two of them will be in the movie). Take note that I am a child of the 80's, so these are all from the original toyline, cartoon, and comic.

5. Blades- the most violent Autobot; this pistol-packing rescue copter fights with bloodlust, and with his fellow Protectobots combines into the heavy duty Defensor.
4. Onslaught- the Decepticon tactician and anti-aircraft truck rolls with a sonic stun gun as he always develops a strategy that gets him ahead. Ballsy enough to once try and overthrow number 3 on this list, Onslaught combines with the other Combaticons to form Brutus, one of the strongest Transformers alive.
3. Megatron- You've got to be the baddest of the bad ass to oppose the G that is Optimus Prime and Megatron does that nicely. The leader of the Decepticons transforms into a Walther P38 but doesn't really need to due to the hefty fusion cannon he carries.
2. Grimlock- The leader of the Dinobots transforms into a T-Rex and carries a big ole energy sword, what more do you need? He values only strength and is probably the only other robot on the same level as Optimus and Megatron, despite sounding like a caveman.
1. Soundwave- 1st off, he transforms into a giant boombox (and what child that grew up in the 80's doesn't love a ghetto blaster), 2nd, he's like 10 bots in one since he rolls with his tape collection; some of the standouts being Laserbeak (a condor spy), Ravage (a panther with guns), and Frenzy (a tiny psychopath), and 3rd, he spoke with a vocoder before it was played out. He was also one of Megatron's most trusted generals (the one that held him as a gun) and had some form of telepathy. Hands down, the coolest robot ever.

From The Lab

Hiding From The Watchmen

O', the things that shift behind the fragile stone veils,
Are better to be hidden from the prying eyes
Of watchmen, staring from across the misty bay.
Here, we can dance the dance of the ancients, in tune
With a melody the watchmen will never hear,
Even if their ears could penetrate the blue fog,
They could not understand what they're listening to.
Under the protection of impenetrable
Walls, our faceless forms are free to be what we choose,
On occasion, watching the watchmen from behind
Our safe, concrete ideals. It is during these times
That the massive, sickly bay seems but a few feet,
Hardly wide enough to keep us from each other;
Slowly, we'll transform into statuesque models
Of simplicity, and who wants to be seen then?

From The Lab

Secrets & Lies

Secrets and lies and truths untold,
Hidden whispers and words of gold,
Spun from voices built to conceal,
Distorted facts of weapons, real,
And pure, built to maim and destroy,
Threatened by an enemies ploy;
Soldier be warned, your time was now,
So fit the yolk and pull the plow,
To pave the way as they see fit,
Fight the good fight, refuse to quit!
Don't question why, (that's too absurd),
Just risk a life and prove their words,
Distant battles to reach an end,
For the delights of petty men,
Whose spineless backs receive the rub
Meant for brave souls, payed harsh with blood;
Deception lies within these scenes,
Where everything is as it seems.

From The Lab

Masked By A Hologram

The light plays off
of the facets,
carved long ago
by the wisest of wise.
Yet a select few
that build up walls
of false smiles and
a kindness not there
wrongly reflect
their true desperation's,
loves, hopes, desires,
hatreds, and hidden fears,
with purposeful motions
thrown to conceal
like sleight of hand
of the mind and soul,
in a world devised
from blueprints that
were drafted for
a person no longer there,
for here there are only
shades and masks.

From The Lab

Art's Fiercest Spark

What causes man to create,
His hopes, his thoughts, his desires?
Can imagination substantiate
The first spark of the creative fire?
Can the artist deny their fate,
Or will the consequences be too dire?
And if the mind and soul collaborate,
Will the passion be accepted? Admired?

From The Lab

I Am That Figure In The Distance

Let me ask you;
Can you see the world clearly?
As it really is, not
As it appears to be,
Sheltered within the walls
Of your 6 sided box,
Complete with the 1 fogged-up window.
I am that figure in the distance,
Shadowless,
Faceless, but watching you all,
And I can see you all too well,
Comfortable beyond reason,
With your leather and latte's,
Mood enhancers, and fresh exotic fruits,
All of the little lies and half-lies that make up your existence.
Over here, on the outside, reality
Is not comfortable or forgiving,
Out here we wince with the wind,
Exposed beyond your comprehension.

From The Lab

Take Shelter Inside The Beast

The struggle of the knot is harder yet,
His eyes are blind with sweat,
The stronger the push, the stronger the pull,
In cranial contexts,
The wars of the mind are brutal and long,
Each battle takes its toll,
When common sense slowly loses itself,
And anger grabs a hold.
Choices swept away by currents of pain,
Leaves evil standing high,
The criminal element shows its face,
And spreads its wings to fly,
Thin masks falter and fail to hide the truth,
They crack, then fade like dreams,
There's nothing left but to fight the lies, and
Rage against the machine,
To stop the gadgetry of tender hearts,
And heal the split chambers,
Provoked by people who want his downfall,
Jealous, little strangers.
So he hides behind thin walls for safety,
Knowing it won't matter,
And finds a shelter in grief and hate, there,
Amongst the Mad Hatters.

From The Lab

Flowing Through My Veins

Down, through the corridors unseen,
Pours silently figments of dreams,
Drip, drip, slowly drip.

Where toxins spread and grow immune
And buried weakness, now exhumed,
Drips, drips, slowly grips.

Infected cells divide the load,
Hold passwords for genetic codes,
Drip, drip, all in vain.

Pure crimson blood and insulin
Takes place of poisons, interim,
Drip, drip, all the same.

Hear the rush of anger anew,
Those drug-laden tubes, royal blue,
Drip, drip, feed the beast.

In ducts ragged and raw with love,
Uncertain from the flows above,
Drip, drip, for the least.

A Poet's Fame (part 2)

As unnecessary as it may be, respect is a fickle thing, hard to gain, and it comes in varying doses. When it comes to the arts as a whole, writing is somewhere in the middle in terms of the likelihood of making good money and enjoying success. It's easier to make a living as a writer than say an ice sculptor, but the billions of dollars aren't being tossed around as they are in the movie, TV, and music industries. On occasion they can be for the rare writer that manages to balance the art of his talent, material, and marketability, but this is hard to come by. The person that does make a good living through words often does so by writing for various mediums, telling their stories in any way they can. With the exception of one writer in particular, the profession as a whole can offer many opportunities for those who are lucky enough to get their name out there. This lonely exception, in a profession surrounded by solitude, rarely tastes success and recognition, at least while they're still alive.

The poet is different. If the artist is an odd job than the poet may be so far gone as to be unexplainable. Poets are those little kids by themselves in the corner of the world playing with a leaf, or pining away after some unreachable ideal, while the rest of the writers are off in their small teams playing an organized sport. Motivation is different for each writer, especially each poet, but for the latter money doesn't even come into consideration. It can't, there's very little money to be made in poetry, and none of this matters to a true poet.

A true poet is a rare breed indeed. For some of them, fame and that which glitters gold conflicts with who they really are. These poets have little consideration for monetary things, all they have is an urge to capture a moment, object, or feeling into words; perhaps for the comfort of similar thinking people but most assuredly to express something and purge it from one's system. It is a blockage that needs to be broken through and a virus that needs to be cured before it overpowers the sensitivity of it's victim.

The strength of the poem lies in its words, of course. They can rhyme and have a lyrical nature to them like a silent melody, a tune that lies within the ear of the reader. They can be perfect in their blunt and simple stated commentary, or enlightening in reaching a surreal and higher form of art. As long as the words steal the essence of the subject, the magic of the topic, in a way that can become synonymous with the feeling or moment in the brain, then all of the poet's struggles will not have been for naught. Some reader out in the stratosphere will understand and connect and learn and evolve. Those readers aren't easy to get either. To gain a certain level of notoriety there usually needs to be a large body of work to blitzkrieg the shrinking potential readership and bring them into the poet's world. It's the rare soul that can create a small limited number of works and expect to ride high with them on the waves of history. Unfortunately, the fact is that many poets do not gain their hopeful receivers until after their death, not always of course but it does seem to be a final joke on them in a cosmic jester sense of the word.

So a big question remains; why does the poet do it? Why do they write, secretly desiring a modicum of fame, when in the field of poetry the brass ring is such a fickle, fragile, and far away thing that it may as well be nonexistent? To this I can only guess. I think they have to. On some level the poet has to reach out, even if that means only reaching other poets, those few and far between ears in the sea of humanity. Because that's what it's all about, expressing and communicating directly to a like minded soul in an attempt to form that unspoken connection of mutual appreciation.

A Poet's Fame (part 1)

What compels or motivates the artist? In that case, what is it that makes an artist? Is it simply a strange, impulsive combination of imagination and creation? Can the creator still be considered an artist if, (or when), they gain money and notoriety? Some would consider the words 'artist' and 'career' a contradiction in terms, as if it's unnatural. All of these questions simply prove that the artist is an odd job at best. It normally isn't considered to be hard work in terms of a blue collar job that is physically straining; not that the artist doesn't get their hands dirty, the job itself just appears to be fluff work in comparison.

An occupation in the arts is a risky one and full of pitfalls because one can only advance as far as their talent allows, and humans are easy prey to their delusions. It is a path much easier walked by an artisan of little integrity or scruple. All artists need some form of solitude, (and being trapped with one's self can be dangerous), while appearing to embrace a self-serving, almost selfish ideal, but this is a necessity. In order to be successful, or at least stand out above the rest, they have to have a me-against-the-world mentality in order to suffer through the barrage of critics, competition, doubters, and other assorted dream crushers.

I believe that people who create good art are naturally bestowed a great honor. Their work has been accepted by the public eye as superior, (not that the public always knows best), and they are able to make a living by transforming nothing into something. Oscar Wilde once said, "All art is quite useless," and this is true in that it serves no practical purpose to society, at least bad art doesn't. Good art can have several purposes. It can help to make sense of the world around you, it can add meaning to life, or say something in a way that you may not be able to express. It entertains, informs, and serves as a beautiful distraction. Imagine a world without art; no paintings, drawings, fictional literature, music, movies, TV, sculpture, theater, dancing, nothing. The world would be unbearable.

From The Lab

Lost To Myself

Now that they have all left,
All those ears, all those mouths,
All of their opinions,
All those fears, all those doubts,
I can finally see,
Partially through the haze
Of dark, inner shadows
Reflecting off the maze.
The labyrinth of thought,
With all it's twists and turns,
Where logic grows backwards
And every synapse burns.
Here, within the anguish
Of tragi-comic scenes,
Hiding behind tall walls,
Are fading, tired dreams;
Tired of being chased,
Leading their pursuers
Deeper into the dark,
Then losing their allure.