Wednesday, October 29, 2008

I Sing a Song of Simple Solipsism

As my noble friend Janglestein thaws from his journey, hundreds of miles from here, and as Bagelstein continues to befuddle with his nonsensical images and words, I implore you to ask yourself, do I, Wafflestein, exist? And what of the rest of the Trollpop? And what of this blog? Are you really reading one? Or is this all a dream?

You know dreams. You've felt them. How do they feel? Real? Real. A dream is indistinguishable from reality, for as long as you are trapped within its grasp. The logic of dream is incomprehensible to the waking mind, but is forever in tune with the dreaming mind, which shifts forever to accommodate it.

Last night I dreamt I was flying alone on a carpet. The carpet had always been a car. There was a dog with me, and he had always been there. I was uncertain about landing - I had never done it before. I landed, and it was just the same as the hundreds of times I had done it before. I left my car and exited through the doors of the shopping mall that I had always been inside, with bags of the goods I had purchased. I was leaving my front door, empty-handed, to get the mail. There was no dog with me. There never had been. In dream, that which is always was.

Life is a pattern of dreaming and waking. Do you remember your first waking moment? Your first dream? Your childhood, even? Brief, dreamlike snapshots, maybe. Were you ever even counting odd, wake, even, dream? Or is waking even odd? Did dream predate birth? Are you in an odd-numbered state now? Are you sure?

Last night I dreamt I woke up. Sleep well.


Quoth Bagelstien:

The Produgal son hath returneth to giventh the lisp unto all!

Rejoice as I too, a jewyer of sorts, consult my day to ask "hello, how you do?"

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Journey: Part I

Quoth Janglestein:

Greetings dear friends and readers! I have missed you, and I trust the likewise sentiment to be equally applicable. Messages of "come home soon!" which have graced my lowly Twitt'ring abode, has brought tears of joy to my travel-worn eyes.

In this cold October month, I embarked on a journey to meet my love, Sarah, face to face. Sadly, the fates did not smile upon my Jangling antics, and many trials were spewn at my face, dripping into my lonesome eyes, causing a great stinging. I have written my tale in full, and shall be posting it upon this blog in moderate portions. Like the Holy Trinity, it resides in three parts. I offer Part I now, to speak the words my twisted tongue would naught but muddle.

Book I: An Earthy Hymn

Sur quelle route ma amour-fleur fleurit-elle ? Dans quel lac salin son âme réside-t-elle?

Αναζήτηση και βρείτε, le vent des réponses, Αναζήτηση και βρείτε.

Clinging –
the earth to my boot like a child

Rustling --
the leaves; reiterating the ancient percussion of Ophion

Mingling –
the dirt and the snow, a flawed purity

Singing --
the wind its breathy tune

(il ya la beauté)

I feel the message, biting and cool upon my jangling face,
It whispers to me an urgent secret

(à votre portée)

I climb higher atop the mountain peak

(non vi è bellezza)

The message infiltrating every pore
Of my lonesome, broken flesh

(a portata di mano)

My eyes are opened,
My journey clear.

I embark to find my Bellum.

(there is beauty within your grasp)

Book II: A Retelling

“You look dreadful friend, simply dreadful. I’ve got plenty to warm you up. What’ll you have? You don’t say. Just here for some shelter then? Well I don’t blame you son, I haven’t seen rain like this in…oh…nine, ten years by my count. The floods came in ninety-eight, had to close shop it was so bad. Cost me a fort—no, no, that was ninety-seven, before the renovation. Or was it…”

The bartender’s chatter continued. I surveyed my surroundings. The room was saturated in a comforting aura: three elderly men were enjoying a game of darts, a young couple were engaged in flirtatious banter over a few mixed drinks, a blue collar fortysomething nurtured a pint in content nostalgia. I put my feet on the neighboring barstool, finally at ease.

“Say, what’s that tattoo you’ve got there? A bulldog dressed up like a pirate? What’s that? Oh, a pug you say? So sorry, an old fool’smistake.” If he caught the hint of yearning in my voice, he kindly ignored it. “You are a character, that’s for sure. Tell me, Mr…Janglewhat, you say? Ha! Now that’s an odd name. Makes me think of Frankenstein! Now, now, I didn’t mean to offend you; it’s all in good fun. You strike me as the traveling type, may I ask where you’re headed? Ah, LDS I suppose? Oh, well it was just a guess. At any rate I hope you’re not planning on heading out tonight: Green River will be flooded, I guarantee it. So tell me, Janglestein, what’s a fellow like you doing heading barefoot to a place like that anyway? Ah, love, yes, very romantic, but be more specific. A long story, you say? We’ve got all night...”

The drumming rain began its final crescendo. It had been a long night already.

Book III: Ripples


Floating atop the pool of my mind
The name had rested calmly, till
Jolted by the wind’s sweet calling
It moved

The ripples traveled outward
Toward the influx of my heart
Uncovering pain
Buried in the sands

“She has no love for me.” (Is your love then annulled?)
“She has rejected me.” (Have persistence)
“She does not know me.” (Know her stil)
“She will not meet me.” (Go, then, to her)

At this, all doubt was silenced
Left, like footprints, against the frozen ground.
My tears ceased dropping.
My fist unclenched my swollen member.
No longer would the overflow of my heart
Be naught but cream and saltwater.
Instead, it would be action.
To visit the source itself.
To visit


Book IV: Time and Space

2:56 p.m., MST

Rain pours
on a saline sea’s

The sun has deserted her familiar heavnl’y post
But the celestial body of my affection
Moveth not

The scent of gingerbread permeates the air
Mingled with the gas of a
canine queen

So lies my angel, ‘neath sheets of linen
Neither cleaning, nor laundering, nor schoolbook learning
Only being

It was enough

3:56 p.m., CST

Rain pours
on the lonely road
of highway 83

My heart yearns for its happy fulfillment
My engine strains to quicken its speed
Both encumbered by time and space

A transient pleads with me silently
His thumb extended in my direction
I ignore it

Clinging to my treads for miles
Till returning to the ground once again
The only drifter I heed is the rain

It was enough.

Book V: Listening to the Radio Moments Before the Crash

…Now the wintertime is coming,

The windows are filled with frost.

I went to tell everybody,

But I could not get across.

Well, I wanna be your lover, baby,

I don't wanna be your boss.

Don't say I never warned you

When your train gets lost…

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Since I've been gone

Quoth Bagelstein:

Who am I to say in such a long leave of absence that I appear sane or without wit to tell and say that in all my extraneous absence that you are in fact a homo and etc etc, how do you do...

These times struggle like the tortoise or some other such mammalian reptile, clever and devious to make us believe the nonsense of quantum mechanics and such. As I the Clever Hans perform my deeds of valor throughout the city of scholars, who am I to say that the world has no fish left to speak. Dolphins maybe, but those clever bastards are on their way out too...

I greet all my fellow trolls and orcish associates, whom I miss greatly as the overgrown hedgerows embrace the catatonia of strawberry shortcake beverages. In our pursuit of capital gain, ourselves the Popular Trolls are without measure in this vast universe based around tomfoolery/doucebaggery, and yet we are so alone in our quest of bestowing the beseecher of their quantitative enlightenment.

Whorah Digerydah, I see you...