February 29, 2004

More Haiku

Great friends are haikus
Few in number, profound, brief,
Lasting, Vice-versa...

Posted by Michael Diezmos at 11:06 PM | Comments (7)

February 10, 2004

Mosaic

He who is great painted the firmament
Yellow and blue pinkish mauve undertones
Ever changing pigments of Proportion
Divin'd glowing inspir'd with stroked-brush
By God his wonder stipple the starry-night
Pure moon of Dane accents His marked-might.

Posted by Michael Diezmos at 9:17 PM | Comments (5)

Conversation with Plato

So one night I got bored and I called Plato. We kind of talked and chilled for a while in starbucks drinking our caramel frapaccinoes (but he insisted on coconut tai creme frapaccino with a shot of mint), here's what he told me...

Ladies and gentlemen, first of all I am not against attending plays, musicals and dances. However the type of plays, musicals and dances that I would like to watch are the ones that are useful to us, including the State and all of mankind. Art should inspire us to play our roles in society, so these should be as close to reality as possible. If the Arts were to not serve us, or to have any purpose at all, then there is no point; what a waste of life!
I will tell you this, impractical Art does one thing indeed, it corrupts us all. What do I mean by this? Firstly, Art distracts one from his or her job. We all know our place in society. For example, the baker cooks, the soldier protects the State, and the king rules. We have a system of balance that enables us to function as a strong society/State. What if the king started cooking, and the baker started protecting, and the soldier started ruling? It would take a while before the king figures out which utensils are which. Would the baker defend our State with a fork and a spatula? How would a soldier manage a peaceful State, if he were conditioned to think of war?
Secondly, the Arts appeal to our irrationality. We may have different places and roles in society, but we share a commonality of being rational human beings. The Arts affect our emotions in two ways to make us irrational. Firstly, we can become excessively passionate. We become irrational that our emotions take control of us. How could a baker start cooking, if he were too busy crying or too frustrated that he ends up throwing his cooking utensils all over the kitchen? Secondly, we could have a defect in our emotions and could become cold and depressed. We no longer act like human beings, but instead, we are like lifeless metal boxes: prostrate and inanimate. If I were a depressed soldier, would I enthusiastically defend our State? Most likely not, this is similar to what a sage once said to me: “Emotions are not bad per se, but when it controls a person [then it becomes problematic].” The Arts sweeps us up off our feet and drags us away from reality towards fantasyland, where we lose ourselves.
Not only does Art move us to either end of irrationality, but also we influence others with our irrationality. Under any circumstances, a person functions the way he or she would normally function, but his or her emotions, whether sorrow or joy, when reenacted in public, evoke pity or happiness from others. If a person were to release these emotions in order to have equanimity with his or her mind, body and soul, but he or she should do it in his or her private time.
Aristophanes, I am glad that you lift people’s spirits with humor. But why lift people’s spirits with deceptions and false hope? Yes, I said deceptions. A person may ask how. The artists merely imitate. They do not know the true existence of that which they create. They rely on the appearance of objects because they cannot fully comprehend its true form. The artists are twice removed from the truth because in reality there are three ways of perceiving the truth. The first and true way of understanding the truth is by being able to comprehend its ideal form/idea. We are able to understand this because it is part of our human nature. Secondly, while we are able to understand this form, we are not able to reproduce it in its totality. It is once removed from the truth and it can never be the form. Thirdly, if we were to imitate like artists, we would only understand a copy of the form, which is twice removed from the truth. For example: a carpenter knows a bed from a chair because of the form/idea of “bedness”. When he makes the bed, he expresses this form in a tangible manner. The artist on the other hand, if he were to express this form, he does so with illusions. Aristophanes and other artists (whether poets, playwrights or sculptors), who appeal to our emotions rather than the truth of our existence, deceive us. Would we not feel better if we were closer to the Truth of living a moral life, which, in return, can lead us to a happy life?

Posted by Michael Diezmos at 3:09 AM | Comments (1)

Close Encounters of the Third Kind

E.T. eat your heart our!

Quoi de neus E.T.?

Alien
The stars twinkled in the distant black sky. A beam of light streaked through the dark. BOOM! Thunder followed. CRASH! Flash of light.
I walked through the grey narrow hallway. The school’s power was out, but the generator provided ample lighting. The flickering got on my nerves. “So this is my new school”. The principal in a charcoal suit accompanied me to my classroom.
“Sorry about the inconvenience, it’s been a while since we had storms like the ones last night,” the principal said in an attempt to make conversation with me and to break the awkwardness of silence.
Aside from the clicking of her heels and the vague murmurs and laughter of student behind closed doors, not a single thing was heard except maybe the shuffling of my own two feet.
“Here we are!” as she knocked at the door decorated with hearts. “Hello Mrs. Applebie and students, I’d like you all to meet, Elian, he’s your new classmate!”
“Hi Elian, I’m Mrs. Applebie; welcome to kindergarten!”
“Hi El-e-ean!” the class roared.
“So tell us about yourself,” Mrs. Applebie kindly requested.
I stood there silent for a while and looked around cautiously at the twenty sets of eyes alight with wonder. A girl with gleaming eyes looked as if she was about to grin, and a boy was falling asleep. I managed to squeak: “My name is Elian Bonaparte and I’m from Montmarte Sacre-Coeur, France.”
The girls by the dollhouse started to giggle and the boys by the sandbox started whispering in the back. Some tried to suppress their laughter.
“Now friends settle down, we know that Elian has an accent, he is still our friend, don’t forget our manners.”
“What’s an accent?” “Kane! Did you forget your manners at home? Did you forget rule #8, if someone is speaking…what do we do friends?”
“Listen!” the class roared.
“That’s right friends, now Kane, apologize to our new friend.”
He looked at me momentarily, his bulging eyes flared up with a vengeance. His gaze turned towards the floor as he managed to stutter: “So-so-so-rrry El-e-ean.”
The class snickered.
“Now class, behave…Elian go sit in row 5, in seat number 4.”
Coincidentally, I sat on the empty seat diagonally to the left of Kane’s seat.
“My name is El-e-ean, and I’m from Montablabla, France, ‘Kane whispered to me in a feigned high-pitched voice’, Wait until recess.”
“Recess? What’s special about recess? … I don’t sound like that. Do I? Throughout the thirty-minute story-time, which seemed like hours, all I heard was the first sentence of what Mrs. Applebie said. The rest were the long monotonous sound of “Wongck, wongck, wongck” coming out of her mouth.
“What time is recess? Where is it going to be? How long is it going to last? What am I going to do?” Questions like these circulated around my head. I had a plan A, a plan B, and a plan C. If plan A did not work, then I’d go to plan A subset little A before proceeding to plan B.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
“Ok friends, it’s time for recess; Put your coats on; Get your snack, and line up by the red tape on the floor.”
As I was putting on my coat, Kane bumped into me. He apologized in a smug and unctuous way.
It was freezing outside. The parking lot was huge. The teachers stayed near the door and kept watch.
“Let’s play tag!” Kane yelled.
“Yeah!” the class roared.
Everybody else called: “Not it”, except for me.
“El-e-ean is it!” Kane confirmed.
They scattered to safety away from me; Kane was the only one in close proximity to me. He flaunted his red coat like a matador. He did not look fast so I started chasing him. With arms stretched out, I was inches away from tagging him. Out of nowhere, he picked up speed. Out of breath I stopped. He turned around and slowed down, the smirk on his face seemed to be intended for me. I decided to chase someone else, but Kane was not going to give up; he shadowed right behind me.
“What! I’m too fast for Frenchie!” Kane instigated.
“Slowpoke Frenchie, slowpoke Frechie!” the class roared.
I quickly turned around and tagged Kane. I was so excited that I was jumping for joy.
“You’re it! You’re it!” I pointed at Kane.
His complexion suddenly turned ruddy, almost matching his coat. He came running after me in full-speed shoving me to the ground. My bum slammed to the pin-like concrete, and my hands broke my fall, scraping the ground.
“What now El-e-ean? Or should I say illegal alien. It’s people like you that takes away my pop’s job. Because of you, he’s at home, jobless, and drunk. Go back to France!”
I was speechless. “I’m just a student…How can I ever take away your father’s job? …I’m a kid just like you and everybody else…Go back to France?” The next thing I knew, Kane was on top of me, slapping, punching and scratching me. His breath ascending into the sky, and tears were rolling down his cheeks. I could not move; I was stunned. I heard the chanting of the class. Blood gushed out of my nose; I could taste its brackish aftertaste on my cracked lips. I heard the thunderous sound of bell, frenetically rung by Mrs. Applebie. She broke through the throng of gray pants and plaid skirts as I blacked out.
I woke up in a white room. I had an icepack on my eyes, and my nose had stopped bleeding. Across from the bed, there was a mirror, and I saw my reflection. The black bruise on my face elongated my puffed out almond-shaped eyes, and my swollen scratched-up cheeks had an olive-green hue. “I am different.” The bright lights outside were enough to convince me to crashed back to bed and doze off into another galaxy.

The End!

Posted by Michael Diezmos at 2:59 AM | Comments (1)

February 6, 2004

Alien

hello all,
basically one of the things I need feedback on is introducing the characters and the conflict, this would help me get started, thanks! If there's anything else feel free to comment on anything in a constructive manner!

>The star twinkled in the distant black sky. A beam of light strieked
>through the dark. BOOM! Thunder followed. CRASHED! Flash of light.
>
>Elian was jerkily awoken by the sudden halt of the car. With bewildering eyes, he scanned the car. His mother, a little flustered, looked straight ahead, both her hands gripped the steering wheel.
>
>"Sorry about that. What's the matter Hun?"
>
>"Oh, nothing," Elian recited, as he bit his lips. He started fiddling with
>his necklace. He found it futile to explain this recurring dream to his
>mother.
>
>"Are you excited that you're going to your new school?"
>
>Irritated, Elian mumbled, "No!"
>
>"Cheer up, it would be fun, it's like a whole new universe to explore,
>besides you'll meet new people and make new friends."
>
>He shrugged. "Whatever!" He turned his head, a vista of green meshed into
>straight lines.
>
>His mother braked around the curve near entrance X of the school.
>
>"I'll see you later!" his mother bouyantly shouted at him as he disappeared
>into a throng of grays and plaits.

Posted by Michael Diezmos at 1:57 PM | Comments (3)

February 1, 2004

Flash Fiction

I like it, it's like what Dr. Arnzen said, it's similar to Haiku.

Paris

Moving bus stopped. Through the gray tint of the window, a vista of Eiffel's legacy seen. Snapped! Still moment..."Huh?" Ascending the skeletal leaden turret. Cloudy sky. Sinuous Seine rolling. Micromachine cars zigzagging. Diving pennies and 'parachuting' soldiers. Moving dots. Triumphant Arc, a speck ahead. "Where's the Eiffel Tower?"

Posted by Michael Diezmos at 10:20 PM | Comments (1)