The Secret is Protein

Nothing changes.  Excerpt from Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle (1963):

"The trouble with the world was," she continued hesitatingly, "that people were still superstitious instead of scientific.  He said if everybody would study science, there wouldn't be all the trouble there was."

"He said science was going to discover the basic secret of life someday," the bartender put in.  He scratched his head and frowned.  "Didn't I read in the paper the other day where they'd finally found out what that was?"

"I missed that," I murmured.

"I saw that," said Sandra.  "About two days ago."

"That's right," said the bartender.

"What is the secret of life?" I asked.

"I forget," said Sandra.

"Protein," the bartender declared.  "They found out something about protein."

"Yeah," said Sandra, "that's it."

The Real Ultimate Sadness

Today I went to the library to check out a book by Kurt Vonnegut.  (Christos the Greek was there; it was weird.  That dude goes to all of my local hang-outs).  I had to walk past rack upon rack of DVDs before reaching the Adult Fiction section.  Only one Vonnegut book?  What the hell?  The library is a sad place where sad bibliophiles go to feel sad.

New Lands

There is a crystal, beautiful moment in time when everything is just flat line.

Stasis.  Nowhere to go, nothing to see, nothing to be.

Outside of it all is loneliness
But silence
When you can hear only the voice in your head
Speaking the purest truth out of a cacophony of lies.

Perspective from an improbable purgatory
That sheds light on the darkest truths and
Brightest falsehoods.

Then the mirror shatters because
Moments cannot last and
Time insists.

The topography of memory is dangerous,
But it provides a useful map –
Not of where one must go
But of where one has been.

Do you choose to retread the familiar land,
Or do you look for new ones?

To walk off the edge of the map is
To walk off the edge of the world.

Who is willing to explore with me?

Lyrical prose

Yesterday, Nature’s heralds announced the imminent arrival of Winter.

Muted were the fiery tones of Autumn,

Replaced by the opening strains of

A symphony of ochre, amber, beige, and bronze.

Dwindling notes of verdant, serotinal splendor lingered

In the background.

Only to be swallowed by the crescendo of

Sepulchral, hibernal hues. 

I languored in appreciation of this

Autumnal threnody.

I cherished each step through

The carpet of verdure.

Too soon will the luscious crunch of fallen leaves

Give way to the muffled smush

Of fallen snow. 

Winter casts a blanket of silence

Over the whole of humanity

But we all need to rest,

Regenerate, renew.

And, in the Spring,

Our vitality will burst forth in a

Polyphony of potentiality.