Fallen Angel

When words fail us, our tears fall like rain.
Should we feel anger mingled with our pain?
When there are no answers, and right feels wrong,
The tears are the silenced words to our love song
When I remember, they play all over again.
My fallen angel!

I’m not alone hearing a love song play
With no music and no words left to say
What we have left are wishes that won’t come true
And our grief, deeper than any shade of blue
And words we wished we could have said…
My fallen angel!

No one can answer the questions we ask
But guilt never resolved chords dissonance
What’s left when there are no more words?
And she’s not here if they could be heard?
I don’t know anything left to tell
My fallen angel.

What can I say that wasn’t said before?
When I said “I love you,” I loved her more
And the tears fall, singing my love once again,
For mixed up hearts and lives. My friends
Should know love’s much deeper than pastel.
Don’t fall, my angels!

05/21/2017, Deon Mumple

I wrote a poem before about my Ulla, when I found out she had left us.  And now I’ve written this one by request because too many people fall to depression, bipolar, and other mental health difficulties.  We lost Ulla, and then we lost Johnna who wrote sweetly about how Ulla touched her, and honestly I just don’t want to lose any more of my people.  More famously, and more recently, forgive me for taking it too personally, I lost my favorite male vocalist Chris Cornell.

Sorry for being selfish, but please, all the rest of you warriors, please just don’t leave me here without you.  Ulla said “You matter.”  We need each other. And I don’t want to write any more poems in memory.  I want to write poems of celebration.  Ulla was an encourager of others, and the wish I wished the most other than my prayers for her to be healed was that I could encourage her enough, be a good enough friend, to help her and make her want to stay and keep writing, and keep fighting.  And neither were granted.  I fear for myself, and I fear for all of you.

Here is a short, beautiful tribute written about Ulla by Pieces of Bipolar, quoted by Johnna:
Blahpolar had an immense effect on my life. I doubt she even realised how much. She walked beside me on my own journey even as she carried the weight of her own demons. She said two words that redefined my life – you matter. Two simple words that changed my life. And now, I am at a loss for words. Because she mattered to me, and to you and to us. Words escape me. All I have are tears…https://painkills2.wordpress.com/2016/09/07/thinking-of-you-blahpolar/

Songs for My Tribe

I think everyone I care about should have a song sung about them.  So I’m going to write a few.  The songs should be celebrations.  Why are you my people? Why do I care about you? What do I worry about?  What do I think you need to hear?

And not just that.

What makes me think you’re special?  What have I read that makes me celebrate and enjoy you?

I have a few people in mind, but don’t let me limit myself.

Feel free to volunteer yourself in the comments, and I will, I promise.  Be patient with me, it takes a while sometimes, and other times I just know what I want to say.

Feel free to volunteer someone who won’t volunteer, and I may write that one first.  That said, these may not be in order.  But I need to do it.

Because depression strikes me right in the soul, and I can’t bear to lose any more of my people, my “tribe,” without telling them I care, and one of the ways I have done that in the past is by writing a poem.  People who won’t volunteer may be more important to do first, because they won’t ask, they’ll think they’re forgotten or unimportant to me, or I’ll wait too long to get to them.

So please, if you know someone, even someone I don’t follow (yet), who needs to be celebrated, and who may feel depression’s waves, volunteer them and I will do this thing.

Because someone needs to say something, everyone should be celebrated and cared about, and EVERYONE…

Everyone should have a special song sung over them, about them, to them, while they are around to hear it.

A Song for Chris

I want to cry, don’t want to cry,
Fuck you, death, Why don’t YOU just die
I’m tired of grief, and time, the thief
I want to kill death, watch it die.

I sit trained like a dog, to wait
For food, my own death, festering hate
Afraid to walk outside the gate
A rabid temple, a sacred fate.

I’d scream to find a higher truth,
Louder than love.  We’re caged, in pain,
We waste away so much of youth,
In saddest days we can’t explain.

The garden’s sounds frighten my soul
Loud and confusing, silent toll,
No sleep, justice is misaligned-
I find a dream, and miss the goal.

I want to cry; I wanted more
Than cloudy feelings, sad and sore.
If life were ever not unfair
In this life we’d settle the score

But we just die, and there we lie
Until we crumble, rot or fry
It’s not the way I would decide
What I want: I want to cry,

I want all my lost treasures back
So many people I’ve lost track,
Nearly forgot my broken heart-
I want it healed, and not attacked,

Black days to go the fuck away,
Starve death until it’s dead and lean,
and Rage Against the Death Machine.
Don’t want to cry.  I want to cry.

R.I.P. Chris Cornell, 07/20/1964-05/17/2017

Sad Song Day

I heard this morning, although NOT on the TV News, for fuck’s sake, that the absolute best male vocalist I have ever had the pleasure of hearing sing has “died suddenly.” “Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell has died after a sold-out Detroit concert on Wednesday, May 17, at age 52.”  With the news media being so much about awful shit happening in the world, why did I not know about this until 11AM.  To soften the blow, I suppose.

He had a history.  I’ve read that when he was a teenager, he suffered from some depression and wrote this song about it:

His voice has been silenced now, and he was only 51. But damn it, he was awesome. The cause of death has yet to be released.  The police are investigating his death as a possible suicide.

Image result for sign letters F uck.

When I was 14 I was “deeply troubled.”  I never got counseling for it, but I did talk to one of my school teachers about it a little.  What I was, was depressed, deeper than I’d ever felt ever before.  I wanted to die.  I wrote my suicide note.

There was self loathing, from personal, physical defects, there was bullying, there was teen angst, there was worry and hopelessness about the future, there was a lot of self-doubt, there were people I thought were my friends who had hurt me, there was the same shit I suppose everyone lives with.  I decided not to act at the time.  I think I burned the suicide note, but I should have kept it.  I don’t remember what it said.

Some people are ass holes.  Shit, a LOT of people are ass holes.  Some life circumstances are shit.  And when the universe fucker decides to fuck with someone, they’re fucked.  Because whatever shit can come at you, comes in from all directions and I don’t care if you’re a nearly sinless holy-rolling, Christ-Following SAINT, you will NOT endure with the patience of Job.  I never asked for the tests, and when they came, I failed.  And when they come, I still fail.  I mean, we can read what we’re supposed to do, and we can brag like Peter did, but when it happens, it sucks.  Work, that merely sucked before, just like everyone else’s jobs, is raised to nearly impossible levels of expectation.  Friends and/or family abandon you, or die.  Strangers, acquaintances, friends, and family do shitty, selfish things at your expense.  Your shit starts to fall apart faster than you can fix or replace it.  Time becomes an impossible archvillain conspiring against you.  Your own body rebels from the stress, and you’re in real pain, and doctors claim that shit is all in your head.  And your back is misaligned and hurts when you don’t move and hurts more when you do, and makes your body hurt all over and not want to move and you still force yourself because whatever it is still has to be done, and no one else is going to do it, and the bills still have to be paid, so you go to work with your walking pneumonia and deal with it.  And what’s worse, frequently, family shows they’re selfish ass holes, taking you and everything you do for granted and only expecting and demanding more.  Oh wait.  Is that just me?  Somehow I doubt it.  Because storms come into everyone’s lives.

Depression sucks.  FUCK YOU DEPRESSION!! I’m not feeling anything else but depressed, but I think depression desperately likes to be felt, because nobody really WANTS to feel it.  So it gloms onto some poor schmuck and feels like animate, living darkness and emptiness, hopelessness, soul-deep self-hatred and waste and rejection, sucking at the soul.  But what’s worse, is suicide.

Suicide sucks.  FUCK YOU SUICIDE!

I think that’s why I decided not to kill myself.  I thought about it, and sticking around to stick it to the universe fucker whenever I get my chances at revenge seems like more fun than surrendering to death.  Even small acts of vengeance are better than letting that black-hearted shithead win.

Damn it, Chris.

He had a wife and a family.  And now they don’t have him.  That’d be another reason I haven’t killed myself.  For as much as I feel taken for granted, I know that it’s rewarding in the long run to be strong, steady, present, loving, and helpful.  I may scar my family emotionally, but they’ll be shallower cuts than just up and leaving suddenly and without adequate explanation.  Not that I’m not scarring them, not that I’m all that strong or whatever.  I suck, but I’m all the dad they’ve got.  I’m not leaving on purpose.

I don’t want to know the cause of death, but I’m sure as soon as those ghouls in the news room get the report, we’ll have to hear all that shit a million times in one morning.  And it probably was suicide, but I think that’s a lousy way to deal with a midlife crisis.  After the news dries up and moves to something more wet, then we’ll have the fucking bio-pic glamourizing both the rock star lifestyle and the death, to “help the audience understand his choice.”  Well, fuck that.  On the plus or minus side, depending on how hard I grieve, I get to hear his music on the radio for a while, just like they did to Prince, and Michael Jackson and Elvis.

Even if it was an “accident,” or something not brought on by Mr. Cornell, it still sucks.  It just sucks worse if it was suicide.  Death by drugs and/or alcohol is the same as suicide to me, so there you have my perspective for what it’s worth.

We common people don’t get treated like that on the news.

Honestly, I feel a kind of aware-of-the-air-molecules soul pain from the loss of Chris Cornell.  He wasn’t family; I didn’t know him personally.  I’m not your typical fanboy and I don’t plan to follow.  But this sucks.

Your voice was strong and beautiful and hopeful for humanity, and angry at the universe fucker, and now we have to carry on without your voice sounding the battle cry.  You told us what to tell that old lying bastard who wanted us to hurt ourselves and hurt others including our own families, and kill ourselves, and now you’re gone.

At least I still hear the echo:

So here’s the message to the universe fucker:



Say it again, this time, LOUDER!!

I miss you already, Chris.

Capital Punishment, Death, Taxes, and Penalties

Let me go on record here up front:  In general I’m against death.  In general, death sucks ass.  It ends a life, squashes whatever potential for good might have been left, leaves zero chances for a person to learn whatever life-lessons they were supposed to learn while they were alive, or worse, to impart whatever life lessons they were supposed to impart while they were alive, and leaves family and friends “who are alive and remain,” to helplessly watch the dust swirl and feel just that much diminished.

A death due to disease sucks because the person who died probably lived out the last short days feeling like shit and unable to enjoy the time.  A death due to suicide is worse, because no one knows what kind of torment the person endured before making that ultimate choice.  Bill Maher quips, “Suicide is man’s way of telling God, ‘You can’t fire me! I quit!”  It sounds funny, but it’s not.  Fuck you, Bill Maher.  It’s never funny, not fucking ever.  He probably only says it because he’s not suicidal and, I think, doesn’t know what depression “looks like.”  And, Bill, not that I’d ever expect you to cast a shadow on my blog, if you ARE depressed, I’m sorry, because I DO know what it looks like and I DO know what it feels  like.  It looks like my face in the mirror every fucking day I’m depressed, and it feels like I feel every fucking day I feel lower than lower-middle-class shit.  If you ARE depressed, you’re faking it better than I can manage.  Bra-fucking-vo.

I’m generally against the death penalty because I’m against death.  But that doesn’t mean that if you decide my life, or someone’s I care about, is worth less than yours, and your wants outweigh other people’s rights, that I won’t sit in that jury and vote “Fry that guilty bastard!” on my slip of paper to hand to the jury fore-person.  Everyone who’s talking loudly seems to be asserting that any death verdict by jury trial is bad.  I’m not saying that there aren’t juries who’ve decided based on bad lawyering, bad evidence handling, smear campaigns against the accused, and the defense’s panel of “expert witnesses,” or bogus “expert witnesses” giving idiotic testimony for the state.  There should be an appeals process that involves giving the evidence to a completely different group of experts for evaluation, and presenting both opinions on it to an entirely new jury by entirely different lawyers.   But let justice be meted out by the survivors, not people who coddle rapists and murderers and insure their punishment is humane.  A criminal’s rights should end as soon as the criminal sufficiently disrespects the rights of the victim(s).  The punishment should fit the crime.

For an example of overblown punishment that doesn’t fit the crime, consider sentences for marijuana that are worse than for armed robbery or rape.  What harm is there in some poor schlub buying marijuana for personal, recreational use?  Is the marijuana user really hurting anyone, other than maybe him/herself?  Then there should be no punishment.  Let it stimulate the economy.   Let them find a very mellow place to work, if they feel ambitious.  I get that overdoses happen with other drugs, but I’ve never read about anyone dying from smoking too much pot.

A death due to murder isn’t ever OK; it’s ten trillion times worse than a stupid joke about suicide that offends me.  But we sensationalize murderers; we give them fame instead of infamy.  What we need to do is never mention their names, but keep on mentioning the names of their victims and whatever good the victims brought into the world.  Erase the criminal from the collective social memory.  And, erase the criminal, after the victim’s survivors feel they’ve reached a point of balance to their injustice and decide how to exact the rest.

Accidental death is sad, if it’s actually accidental and not brought on by someone else’s stupidity.  But if it’s actually accidental death, not to be funny, I can live with that.  The trouble is our culture of equivocation.  We call selfish driving that causes a collision an “accident.”  We call a selfish ass hole who causes whatever level of grief “a fellow human being who makes bad choices.”  I say, fuck that.  It’s not an “accident,” when it’s a deliberate action taken by one person against another.  It’s not a “bad choice,” when it’s a crime.  Here’s an interesting article, take a look and see how we deceive ourselves and other people, and how we are deceived.

“Accidental” death and other “accidental” crimes sound like things that could have been avoided by the victim.  But they can’t, if they weren’t really “accidental.”  “It was a total accident, your honor.  I needed to get to my fill-in-the-blank so I drove poorly and asserted myself, and presumed the other person would yield their rightful right of way, but the other person decided to equally and opposingly assert themselves, and our cars accidentally collided.”  Sounds like “he (accidentally) fell on my knife.  He fell on my knife, ten times.”  Doesn’t it?  But of course, traffic “accidents” aren’t ever described by the defendant in honest words.  Ask a drunk driver; they’ll tell you “it was entrapment.  The cop was lurking near the bar or he/she would have never seen my driving choices as ‘improper.'”

“It was a total accident.  I mistook that briefcase carrying all that money for my own, so I accidentally picked that up, and then, since I don’t keep a record of serial numbers on my cash, I mistook all that money for my own, so I accidentally spent that.  And then, I did the same with all those credit card numbers and pins.  Five hundred times.  How was I supposed to know those numbers weren’t mine?  Do YOU remember YOUR credit card numbers without looking?”  Aww, poor thing, he made a mistake.  Let’s send him home.  He looks sad and repentant, but crisp and dashing in that suit and tie, and he did tell us he’d never do it again…

I sometimes wish there was a way to get out of the natural consequences of my choices.  But it seems to always land squarely on me.  Karma is a bitch, unless you’ve got a good lawyer or a fat bank account, or both.  Karma is a bitch, because I’ve got neither.  And life is a bitch, too.  Because things fall apart faster than I can afford to replace them, and because things get dirty faster than I have energy to clean them.  Life is a dirty, messy thing that falls apart.

Where’s the karma for the manufacturer who knew when his shit would fall apart, and for the lawyer who wrote the damned warranty for the shit that fell apart?  It’s buried in piles of cash.  Some people skate through life, and don’t deserve it.  Other people struggle through life, and don’t deserve it.

The death penalty is right for the victim’s surviving circle.  But death, otherwise, just sucks.  The dust swirls around our heads.  We’re left wondering what the fuck just happened.  We’re left lonely.  We’re left with the mess to clean up.  And we’re left knowing it just wasn’t right, and we can’t actually have justice.  There’s a psychic hole left in our hearts, and in our lives, and we have to figure out how to deal with that because it can’t be fixed.

Taxes are great, if they serve the purpose they’re collected for.  But instead, they fatten congresspersons up into little doughboys and doughgirls, and the laws they write and the things they actually spend the money on fail to serve the greatest good.  The common people are the victims, because not only are the criminals criminals, the lawyers who write the laws and spend the money are criminals, but they say it in different language, deceptive doublespeak, diminished-consequential-impact equivocation, until the common people are so confused they surrender.

In “The Princess Bride,” Inigo Montoya finally defeats his enemy after much suffering and grief.  “Offer me anything I want!”  And what does he want?  Real justice.  But because he can’t have it, he takes something just a little less than justice.

And in the end, he’s left dissatisfied because it didn’t make everything right.  But at least there was one less selfish ass hole in the movie, making life harder for innocent people.

If I’m on the right side of faith, and there’s an eternity, I hope it does actually make everything just and fair and right.  But I also hope there’s a fair amount of mercy available, because sometimes I’m the selfish guy.  I admit I want what I want.  Just not behind the wheel of my car or behind a gun or behind money, or behind doubletalk.  I’m not that kind of selfish.  (see what I did there?)

Math Language Disection IV

Hello again, readers, fans and celebrated literary critics!  It’s been a while, you all have been warned, SEVERAL TIMES, and despite my cautionary notes advising against it, to date there are, according to WordPress, 297 lost souls who for some reason have clicked “follow” at the bottom of one of my wellsprings, by which I mean pits, of insanity.  You may think it’s writing, but this blog is the dumping ground, the killing floor, and the outdoor crapper all in one, for my wasted genius, my grief for undercompensated best efforts, my useless emotional outbursts, and any pitiful kernels of spirituality, dropped and immediately snatched away by birds, and choked lifeless by the cares of the world and the Powers that be which could do something about shit but couldn’t be arsed because, to shamelessly steal from Jeff-fa-fa Dun-Ham (dot-com)’s character José Jalapeño (on a stick) [they’re] “laughing too hard.”  At my damned expense.

Did you see what I did there?  See, we all love readers, we all love fans, and we all love it when a reader or a fan has something nice to say and posts a comment about our writing.  We don’t like the haters, because nobody likes a hater.  But instead of just pushing away, which really resolves nothing and might even provoke an antagonistic response, I gave the haters a little dignity, a little respect, in calling them “esteemed literary critics.”  Maybe that’s all any of us needs.  Personally, I’d love to be a literary critic.  Because what do you do?  You read it, or you skim it, and you offer an opinion about what you read, or about the author.  You can literally say whatever shit you want.  If you’re in a bad mood, fuck your subject, fuck your readers, and fuck the world.  If you’re in a good mood, fuck your subject, fuck your readers, and fuck the world, but enjoy doing that.  Being a critic:  It’s something similar to being tangential, except instead of being tangential at a given point, a critic offers a tangent at any point.

A good critic will offer encouragement to continue doing whatever a person being critiqued  is doing, but to continually work hard, in an effort to do it ever better.  One doesn’t normally just give a status report, a numeric evaluation, without any kind of answer guide or explanation.  One might establish a baseline expectation of performance, either based on prior experiences there, or industry standards, or One gives things the subject should keep on doing that they’re doing well, a kind of “run.”  And then one gives things where they need improvement, a kind of potential to “rise,” or “fall.”  You give an “O-pinion”

An O-pinion is something that’s unpredictable.  The tangent might lie anywhere around the circle, the “O” if you will, and go in any direction established by the critic.  That is to say, if a place did better the last time and they were crap this time, a downward slope might be indicated.  If a critic only pinioned a subject, in contrast, there would be no room to breathe, you would be unable to move, which is why an o-pinion is preferable.  If you were racked and pinioned,  you’re probably already finely ground between the teeth of the gears.  And stretched, if you were racked correctly, and immobilized if you were pinioned correctly.   If you were pinioned, always keep in mind that being immobile has the benefit of being what’s called “nodal,” meaning you are not moving up or down.  If that’s the case, it may suck, but at least things aren’t getting any worse.   And if you were the same as last time, you may get a slope that’s a horizontal line.  It may be on the bottom of the o-pinion, which means you sucked and you still suck and your critic has abandoned all hope, but still gave you a shot, or it may be at the  top, which means you were excellent before and you’re still excellent.  The benefit of a horizontal line is they liked you the same as last time.  I’d hate to have a slight upward slope.  It might give me false hope of actually improving, for fuck’s sake.

There are chefs in restaurants who literally live, or have died, by their rating.  Chef Bernard Loiseau was in debt and suffering clinical depression, and still worked his ass off in the kitchen all day, before killing himself, on February 24, 2003.  I haven’t forgotten.  I never got to go to his excellent restaurant while he worked there.   It is a tragedy, and I will never forget.   I’m not sure which is more tragic:

a) being in debt, which I am, and working your ass off to get out of debt, only to figure out that your employers are shitheads with jackboots on, and realizing there is no way to climb out of the pit because when you try someone is up there to kick you back down;

b) not being able to fix the situation enough to become more comfortable or at peace, no matter how hard you work at it, which I am, precluding some kind of miracle, see below;

c) being prone to depression like Monsieur Loiseau, which I am, though perhaps not quite so severely, after working so hard to succeed and feel good, you get the boot and fall again and feel like a failure who’ll never succeed, which I do.  I married an absolutely fantastic woman, and I love her beyond what I believe is anything normal, but she is a fucking backward nit-picker.  You work your ass off, deal with the details, pick all the nits you can find out, fix everything your little detailed brain can handle until you’re too tired to see, and she comes in and only needs a minute or two to assess, whereupon she always tells you where you fucked up, what you did wrong, the 1 tiny nit that remains out of the five hundred you carefully combed out and killed, the 1 to 3 percent of whatever project you didn’t accomplish, and why it’s not enough and you feel like it’ll never be enough, so why keep trying?  So far, I keep trying and she hasn’t kicked my  ass to the curb yet, so I must be doing all right I guess, even though I feel like a miserable piece of shit;

d) realizing that the only people who really matter to you are all like the above, never satisfied with anything you have ever done.  What’s the hope they will ever not be looking down their fucking noses at everything you ever will do, all the while forcing you to either eat your rage or just accept whatever they do, because your love covers a multitude of  their sins, but evidently they don’t love you enough to overlook yours.  Trust me, it’s a shitty way to live;


e) not being quite stubborn enough or angry enough at them to stick around if only just to piss them off.  I’m one stubborn bastard, which is why I’m not dead.  In my heart and soul, I do care, and I wish that what I brought was enough.  But my stubbornness dictates that I ultimately reach the point of va te faire enculer, and I let the critics go their way with my French, um, well-wishes, trusting they will be self-satisfied and content with their lives while they destroy mine.  In the spirit of said va te faire enculer, I do sometimes pray for a critic to be adjusted, gently given a little bit better perspective, and meanwhile I work until I’m tired, and I get up the next day and try again.  If only I could be self-satisfied as they are, and let that be enough.  If only the hard work I do could be appreciated and well-compensated at work, and reciprocated at home.

Alas, my day job dictates that I be subject to critical opinions and unrealistic timelines and expectations that keep me bruised and kicked down, no matter how hard I work my tail off to satisfy the requirements.  Career advancement might have been possible if I had kissed ass, sucked …up… and let the bosses steer my career.  I didn’t, so I’m dead to them.  They don’t give a shit, they labor hard and long to think of reasons why they can’t give me a fucking cost of living increase, but turn with the same two faces and tell me how much my work is appreciated.  In reality, I know the truth of the matter:  they’re just waiting for me to die, or to quit, and it can’t happen soon enough to suit them.  Fuckers!

Alas, my family life is the same, and I am already bruised and kicked from work, so there’s nothing left to offer but blood and body parts.  I’m not important enough, or depressive enough, to feel that what I do or don’t do is worth getting depressed enough to kill myself. I appreciate solitude, don’t get me wrong.  But Mrs M, bless her heart, more days than I actually appreciate, gives me a nonverbal va te faire enculer and then probably takes that and applies it literally in her own way, because how the fuck should I know when she goes to sleep and leaves me awake and dealing with my feelings all by myself.  I’m not crying, because that’s not me.  “Fucking WAAHH!”  Nope.  I’m just angry, and I eat rage for midnight snacks, and wait for Mrs M to decide she’s relaxed and not tired, and just bored enough to use me.  One of my readers teases me about how I make such a good fucking wife.  I love her, but at the same time…I love her.

Oh, Monsieur Loiseau!  To have ended yourself just for having disappointed one or two smug fuckers, customers who think they know better than anyone else what service, and food, should look like, and taste like, and what you should cook, and how you should cook it, blah, blah, blah.  As if their way was the only fucking right way.  And, as if, disappointing one or two customers mattered, when you’ve literally satisfied a few thousand others.  Those critics probably don’t even pay l’addition, s’il vous plait; les rapiates!  Putaines!

Notice that hope for the “critic.”  I could have just said:



and left it at that.  But no.

If I were driven to be the best writer, instead of just expressing what I feel, or writing what I’m thinking about, I’d be done.  I’m aware that my writing can be surpassed.  I have days when I can almost pull it together.  I may have written something crappy last time, but maybe this time, it’s not AS crappy as then.  The slope of the tangent, from last time to this time, is upward.  The love from encouraging, soft-hearted people, comes along.  Other days I’m not so together, those same loving, encouraging, soft-hearted people are too kind to offer a word of criticism because it might be taken harshly.  Because, sure.  Let a heartless putain de connard literary critic come along and shred me, the weak, worn fibers will no doubt tatter easily.  The slope of the tangent, from the quality of yesterday’s writing to today’s, is downward.  Why?  Well, Deon, maybe it’s because you didn’t write anything yesterday, but today’s is crap so why should we expect better?  There are people with better audience appeal.  There are people with more interesting or more compelling subject matter.  There are people who have a better sense of humor, a better way of expressing themselves, a better vocabulary, a better site layout, betterbetterbetterbetterbetter.

There are writers who can actually focus and write on a topic, without rambling.  And speaking of rambling, the moment you’ve all somehow had the stamina to endure for, has come.  My ramble is rambled, my rant is ranted, at least for now, and finally…

It’s time for Math Language Dissection IV:  Today’s Dissection:  Derivatives

Oh, Deon.  Not again.  We could hardly stand it the last time, and this time you rambled on about shit no one cared about until no one was still reading.

But Oh, Yes, more Mould.  Or Math Language Dissection.  Because that’s the nature of math, and mould- it grows on you.    Four times as much math dissection as the first time.  Last time I did this, I nearly lost 212% of my readers, which should be impossible you say, but just trust me, it almost happened.

At the risk of doing it again, click here and look through this webpage.

If you did that, and actually came back to my blog, you intuitively know something about people who studied math on purpose, more than our basic masochistic leanings.  But you should also intuitively understand that the reaction you just had is the same reaction EVERYONE has, especially students who are forced to learn mathematical derivatives.  It’s an entirely human reflex action, as natural as what happens soon after ingesting Carapichea ipecacuanha syrup.  Mmmmm.  Deliciatives.

We hate derivatives.  Derivatives try to copy the original.  You THINK they’re hard to figure out, but when you scratch the surface and take a good hard look under the gilt-edges, you see the truth.  They’re fakes, cheap imitations, trying hard to pretend they’re just as good.  They follow the slope of the original function, or the recipe, if you will, but the flavor is flat as a dropped soufflé.   They follow the concept, you get the idea, but they have no soul.  It’s there, it’s OK, sure, but every OUNCE of the love has been sucked out.  Like The Machine in The Princess Bride sucked the years out of Wesley, a derivative is The Machine turned up to 99: not until the function is “only mostly dead,” but until the function loses its’ purpose.  There’s almost nothing left- it’s a skeleton, where there once was a captivating, lush-lipped, full figured, gorgeous woman.

We loved Alan Rickman, for instance, but there isn’t a human being who can match the snark, the bitter sarcasm, the attitude, the absolutely harsh, absolutely charming ennui, of Mr. Rickman.  He could be apologetic and still, under the gently sorrowful words, you somehow knew he knew he was right.  Fortunately for the pretenders, but unfortunately for the rest of the world, he’s gone.  Attention, all you haters:  You have a chance to aspire to the new number one.  Unfortunately for you, haters, it’s me.  That’s right.  I’m sorry (no, really!), but your opinion is worse than irrelevant, it’s powerless to change the fact that I’m right, and it couldn’t be more exhausting to me.  It’s exhausting, because you so strongly believe you’re right, that you wear everyone out with your endless, foolish, barbaric garrulity.

I am the world’s harshest critic.  Fortunately for the world, my harshest wrath and ennui is trapped inside the mirror of ssensselepoh like a damned horcrux.  That’s right, I am the anti-Gilderoy Lockhart, and I speak Parseltongue, too.  I gaze into the mirror and see my soul, my shattered dreams, my surrendered ambition, my brokenness, and everything adds up to intense self-loathing.  All I’m looking at is the image of a harsh reality; what I see is all entirely truthful.  And unlike Voldemort’s foes, no one is willing to even TRY to destroy the mirror I sometimes gaze into, which could potentially be accomplished by giving me any amount of cash greater than $300M.  Thus far, no one has been willing to try, and therefore I can’t die.  Come on!  Someone, give it a shot!

What the world needs is not more derivatives, like those unending old Haim Saban Power Ranger sequelseries, or Stephen J. Cannell’s crime mimeographs, or Dick Wolf Wolves, or Anthony E. Zuiker Zuikers and Bruckheimers, or sappy Aaron Spelling everything-works-out-good-in-the-end-after-the-shit-goes-down-and-people-“just”-fucking-try-harder shows.  Spelling also loved stories where people didn’t appreciate what they had until they got what they thought they wanted.  I hate that shit.  Fucking “It’s a Wonderful Life” DERIVATIVES.   And honestly, I really DO appreciate what I have, to the extent that what I have is good.  What I have is a lush, full coloured painting, of what could be.  What I want is 3-D, so much more, so much better, so very possible.  I love Spelling’s REAL story in spite of myself, because it could have gone really bad but it didn’t, at least not until his misfortune returned in around 2001.  He was MARRIED to Morticia Addams, and what could be bad about that?

What the world needs are anti-derivatives.  Anti-derivatives are the opposite of derivatives.  Instead of being fashionably way too thin and nearly two dimensional, or worse, one dimensional and just showing the slope, an anti-derivative is original, gorgeous, full figured, proud, stark naked and grinning, going in it’s own unique direction, shouting a loud “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES!” to all the critics.  THIS, Chef Bernard Loiseau, is who you were meant to be, except you let them wear you down.  When the haute cuisine world goes off on idiot tangents, if you’re able to be yourself, the anti-derivative, the original function, instead of the tangent off the anti-derivative, it’s a glorious thing, but the critics are always critical.  If you’re classical,they want you to run with the fad and still excel, and if you run with the fad, they bitch because you’re not traditional enough.

Don’t let the critics wear you down.  Don’t, even if the critic is the voice in your own head. What the world needs is you.  Not the you that tries to be someone or something you’re not.  The original, beautiful you.  Be that.  Be the Anti-Derivative.

Love, Feet, and Prayers

Blink, awake, I’m immediately obligated to fake that I’m feeling OK,
No breakfast, please, let me just take these,  pills, and I’ll start my day:
One foot in front of the other foot
in front of the other foot,
Just like my mum used to say

I’ll just brush my hair, don’t bother to shower, pretend that I care
about me.  And no one can see, I act brilliantly, hiding so deeply in there
One foot in front of the other foot
in front of the other foot
And remember never to swear

I went through hell, when I tried to tell my family what i was feeling
The rages, sadness, why is life such a mess, through the chaos, can you see me?
But here I’m safe, write one word, another
Just one word, another
Simple honesty feels so free

Steal a minute that ends, while I greet my real friends, and a minute has turned sixteen
Fuck!  I hate it, I’m late, but maybe you’ll read and you’ll know just what I mean
Make it through another day
Another one, one more day
And hope that my true love’s been seen

Then I drive off to work, following all the jerks in their cars who don’t know how to drive
Breathe fast, run to the door, traffic, work is a bore, I feel lucky that I survived
One task in front of the other task
What more can they ask?
And then they ask for ten other tasks, when I don’t even have time for five.

I’ll come home, try to read, staunch my soul, mid-bleed, understanding what you say
I need you, everyone, when life is no fun, to share life and trade jokes so I feel almost OK
We’re wired a different way.
If you hear what I say,
Just maybe you’ll stay one more day

And why do I stay?  Say the things I say? Feel the feelings the way I do?
Mania, sadness, rage, bitter here in my cage, but at least I’m here with you.
You encourage me, stronger as we,
Than we, alone would be,
While I try to encourage you:

One more day, stay with me, one more, and another,
Make it through, breathe, don’t smother,
Put one foot in front of the other,
I do love you, like my sisters and brothers.
So please stay one more day, and then stay through another.
Please, stay.