Bridge Troll in Seattle
This is an experiment in saying essentially the same thing in two different forms: Prose Poem vs. Exposition. I prefer poetry, but I really need to work on my prose if I want to write those adventure stories about treasure, monsters, and the people caught in between.
Trolls: Prose Poem
I have grown fond of the term “Troll” on the web; I might even be one. I live between Midgard and Asgard under a Rainbow Bridge. I am fairly certain I am not a “bot”, or an android. My body wishes it was an android as the aches and pains grow more pronounced. But if I am a troll under a bridge, my parents never taught me how to take toll. I get nothing from those that cross over.
I mostly just sit by the fire and listen to the traffic, the foot clomps that keep me awake or awaken me from a deep slumber
Just when I was getting use to the idea that my comments on Facebook might make me a troll, I looked up the term in Wikipedia. My view of trolls comes from Tolkien, and they turn to stone when caught in the sun. I have been called a “troll” once at least in the last fourteen months, but not a “bot”.
According to Wikipedia:
“a troll is a person who sows discord on the Internet by starting quarrels or upsetting people, by posting inflammatory, extraneous, or off-topic messages in an online community (such as a newsgroup, forum, chat room, or blog) with the intent of provoking readers into an emotional response or of otherwise disrupting normal, on-topic discussion, often for the troll’s amusement.”
I am not that. I am just a poet with an opinion, and as the old saying goes, “opinions are like assholes, everybody has one.” When I originally set up my blog it was to explore the webs potential to introduce my writing to people outside of the traditional methods of hard copy publication going through magazine and journal editors, or even publishing houses for longer materials. I tried that route for years starting in the early nineteen-seventies. I have a whole list of rejection slips with wonderful lag times of weeks if not months before those works went out again. What I did finally manage to get published never built an audience and without an audience publishers do not go out of their way to print your work or go out of their way to promote you.
The web seems like a nice way to build an audience before turning back to the print world again.
I have set up two blogs, one is just a vestigial organ now, and the other at WordPress is still active. I set up a web persona just to add some mystery to my work. The persona became more active when I set up a Facebook page to help promote the blog. I have yet to post a Tweet to see if that can drive traffic. I am still trying to figure out how Twitter works. I have an old brain and nobody has offered an upgrade yet.
When the Trump administration was installed with the help of FSB money, trolls, and bots, Facebook became my way of at least stating a quick opinion in the comments section. It made me feel I was rallying those of like opinion and voicing some hope and wallowing in my despair until my works in my blog at least caused a ripple in an audience. What is an old poet to do while we wait to exercise our right to a peaceful transition of power in government via the two-thousand eighteen November election and the American people can at least try and vote out the supporting structure of Congress in this horror story of corruption and exploitation.
It has been a very long time since I have been around an active war zone or a coup. I have actively avoided those for forty years now. My intelligence gathering goes back to what would be called the diplomatic community, but I worked for a very long time as an information specialist until I found a real job dealing with the solid waste flow, fighting the war on garbage professionally. It develops an odd perspective of society and leaves the mind free to wander. I will have much more time as I approach retirement to put all that information into written form. I like to think of it as writing my memoirs, but most of it will be fiction. That is the stuff that I want to be trolled and boted (is that even a word, to be boted?) by forces that I piss off. Maybe I can develop readers. Facebook and Twitter are just tools for me. I guess I am exploring new mediums.
In the movie Blazing Saddles, Gene Wilder is leaning over Cleavon Little’s shoulder consoling him after being bad mouthed for being the black sheriff of Red Rock:
“You’ve got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the new West. You know . . . morons.”
At which point, Little cracks up.
That is how I like to see people who are not trolls or bots but do not like my comments. But I do not write them to provoke or create discord. That is useless, and any amusement I can get from discord can be found in the news, and it is not amusing. As far as changing opinions, beliefs, only time can do that or growing as a person. Some people just have to learn the hard way.
The web is a powerful tool and like all tools, they can wind up in the hands of people who abuse them, you know, morons. But in clever hands, trolls, bots, propagandists, governments, religions, intelligence services, advertising agencies, salesmen, conmen, etc. it can be deadly unless everybody pays attention to how to use it as an information source. This may be a totally new event in the evolution in humanity. We were all just lucky enough to be born in interesting times. I thought movies were a powerful medium. I thought newspapers, magazines, television, and radio were powerful. I thought just talking to people if you have the gift of gab was powerful. The web transfers data without a beginning or end, without much chance of stripping the data apart and putting it back together to see how and why it works. You have to do that with the written word, you have to do that with film, and eventually you have to learn to do that with everything, the web included.
I am getting pretty old, it is probably time to grow up, learn how to deal with the new world we are living in. Sure I have some experience, but I cannot move as fast as I use to. The web presents a totally new mechanism for my creeping senility, an off loaded memory machine. Mine as well as everybody else’s. Like in studying literature as I was taught in school, a person using this off loaded memory machine has to watch out for trolls, bots, and liars. Just like we are supposed to have learned about life in general growing up. I guess I should have suspected, growing up never stops.
As an experiment, my preliminary observation is that poetry is shorter.
Even though it is on TV, I prefer my evening news filled with thought rather than read with passion. The news read with passion rather than thought is empty. An old Dragnet line comes to mind, “Just the facts Ma’am.”
My love stories I prefer delivered with passion rather than thought. There is a fine madness in the biochemical reaction that people call love. Thought rarely has anything to do with it.
Documentaries should have both, thought and passion. As in school, you know that somebody is trying to teach you something. With TV you can change the channel if you have made the wrong choice.
When I am not watching the news, love stories, or documentaries, I am writing my own stories. For those I have to do my own research. The voices narrating are tested every step of the way, and sometimes they lie.
The world does not need Evil;
it just needs People. We do
not need to find Monsters in Space;
we just need People. We do
not need Mad-scientists or Mad-doctors;
we just have People.
We do not need Ugly-people to be
pretty; we have Pretty-people
who are ugly. We do not
need Bad-people to be good;
we have Good-people who are bad.
We do not need Truth becoming
a lie; we have Lies that
have become truth.
We need not fear Peace will
become War; we have War that
has become Peace. We do not have
to fear that Weapons will become Tools;
we have Tools that have become Weapons.
We should not fear Freedom becoming law;
we have Law that has become freedom.
In the trough before the next wave,
I do not practice the primal howl;
I practice the primal whimper.
The dichotomy of doing and not doing
when all the doing seems to be
reflection of moon in the water
pointing out to the edge of the world.
It is not the sun that rises;
it is I that rotates to the sun.
The dunes travel to night.
In the swirl of sand and water’s
squalls, the wail of Beast in storm
lures blinded hunters
into the gyre of illusion and desire.
… shard of glass wedged between two concrete slabs of the walkway.
Or is it some pale fragment of emerald, or clear jade freak of nature?
Possibly peridot or the illusive uvarovite. Sapphire, apatite, or tourmaline?
Another broken bottle remnant, but anything is possible in the vernal-light.
Once more out of the darkness,
once more into the flicker of light,
and my spirit squints in the tunnel
of my flesh, uncertain if my form
has the strength to carry it forward.
Fire to Earth out of the dreams
of Water into the breath of Air,
has the nefesh risen from
clay? Is it the same
that crawled into winter sleep?
Will I find the desert sands
among broken pillars? Will I
find young grass on the mounds?
Will there be time to plant the crops
before the war-beast stalks?
Or will the scale with feather’s weight
forget my Ka this year? Will cascading
call from glacial heights erode
the village walls we rear?
My nature’s soul to hear?
The green grass and the barbed wire fence,
pasture and livestock . . . another fence,
meadowlands and woods beyond.
Those woods could be second growth,
and the grass is chewed down every season.
My spirit roams as I sleep,
it is often not with those I slumber with,
it can be lost within the woods,
sometimes it is farther afield. It is not
faithful my spirit, is yours?
These days I slumber alone, but never
truly alone. There is always something
that I reach out to, or reaching in.
When I was young I hoped for passion.
When I loved, I dreamed of passion.
I do not remember anybody explaining
the difference between the two.
Someone may have hinted along the way,
but they never said the words.
I never said the words either,
it seemed rude, or perhaps
like all humans; I lied.
I remember hands reaching through the wire,
sometimes my own, some coming from the other side.
Grasping, trying to hold on as eyes stray
to the forest, or the critters of the flock.
I can still feel the barbs and see scars
where drops of blood once blossomed.
Passions left me longing for my home,
not feeling that I was home.
Pleasures of the flesh were rarely pleasures
of the spirits joined. No one gave the caveat
of jumping bones for jumping bones,
even when younger. Now that I am old
and withered, that is not a likely case.
My spirit still wanders as all spirits
wander. I know the world, the universe
of illusion and desire. I know
that desire can be just a glamour
of self delusion in others as well
as in me. The grass
is always greener on the other
side of age.
In the land that was the CCCP, now called the Russian Federation, the people’s assets have been taken away. Now is the time for those assets to be returned to the people. Workers of the Federation unite. Your father’s fathers did it once, do it again. The Revolution never ends; it is an endless battle. In my country, we have been asleep as well. We have been forced to wake up and look at the country we have allowed to be overrun by greedy gluttons. We have begun to fight back. It is a hard row to hoe, but spring is coming. This has been the year of the roaster. This will be the year of the dog. I hope this dog can hunt, and has a hard bite.
that the guy who made
up the Library of Congress
system of cataloging
had no sense of humor?
BS is the classification
under which the Bible
published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.
first published on the internet at BlogSpot.com, 8/21/2015
I tried to explain about the strange man
in the phone booth,
but nobody would listen.
He nattered about weird stuff:
Pity, now the universe is down
to 699 wonders,
in a Mad Hatter sort of way.
Twenty-five years and
they still look at me queer.
When I was a kid; it was comics.
Alternate universe, alternate issues going
forward in time and back in time.
Now it’s Dr. Who.
Talk about social suicide,
talk about Doc at a cocktail party,
you’re standing alone in a corner
with an empty glass.
If they don’t like the Doctor,
strange isn’t in their blood.
And if strange isn’t;
Under all that conformity?
published in For the Love of Death, the early years, 2nd ed., S.I.N., 1993.
first internet publication on BlogSpot.com, 8/22/2015