Friday, March 13, 2009

The Tortoise and The Hare

Hare's funeral was held on March 13th. Tortoise was glad that he got the invitation three weeks early. At the funeral there was a great hullabaloo going up from all the gathered members of the forest community. Tortoise felt slightly out of place, but he had once been great friends with Hare, so he tucked his legs up into his shell and took a seat towards the front. He had a great view of the casket.

Animals took turns going up to the front and howling their condolences into the microphone. Bear told a story about when Hare tricked him into getting stuck in a tree. Raccoon told a story about how he and Hare used to go fishing, and Mouse recounted the hilarious episode in which he hoodwinked missus Hare into believing he was one of her young. Hare had plenty of young. They stretched out from the funeral in all directions, sniffing vaguely in the direction of Hare's lifeless body. When it was Tortoise's turn to speak he stood up and dragged his shelly ass up to the platform. His hard torso knocked against the wood of the podium. He cleared his throat.

“Many of you” Tortoise began, “have heard tell of the story in which Hare and I had a little dispute, decided to settle it with a race.”

“What was that dispute about?” Called Possum, who was known for his lapses of memory.

“Doesn't matter. Race was a bad idea.” said Tortoise. “Hare was at the finish line before my tail even left the block. I thought that would be the end of that, but Hare was a good sport and offered me another shot. I refused it, because I had realized that Hare's life would be short and there are better things to do with your time than race.” Tortoise glared at the other animals. “So you can all thank me.” He turned to the casket. “As for you, Hare, I now whole heartedly accept your offer for a rematch. Ready? Go.” And Tortoise hopped on his bicycle and rode away.

-Seth Rasmussen

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Xena returns

You are not going to believe this:

Yesterday I was sitting on my balcony pondering upon myself when a strange thought struck me. "How," I say to myself sezi, "am I going to survive graduating?" Maybe you do not consider this to be a strange thought. Maybe, under similar circumstances, you yourself experienced similar ponderances. Me, I don't think about things like the future that often. What is going to happen, as they(the fates) say, will happen. The fates have decreed that I will earn a diploma from the UW. I scarcely have a choice at this point. So why do I worry about what the fates have decreed?

Because every beginning implies an end?

Because every end implies a beginning?

Because a diploma implies I have developed my craft and skill to a professional level?

Because I don't know how to do anything except learn?

Because the fates have been shown, historically, to be unsentimental?

As I sat in what Lewis Carrol might describe as "uffish thought", suddenly a huge wingspan cast a shadow across my face. It was Xena, warrior hawk princess! She landed on the branch closest to me and stared straight at me. That basically freaked the hell out of me, but I wasn't about to run inside. I sat there and stared back at Xena for a long time.

Idea: I can talk to birds.
Test: "Hey, Xena! Tell me the meaning of life!"
Result: False

Idea: Though they can't reply, birds can understand what I'm saying.
Test: "Hey, Xena! You should catch me a mouse!"
Result: False

Idea: Don't worry, just be prepared.
Results: Pending

The moment passed. I went back inside. This morning there was a dead mouse next to my balcony door.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Ada's Larvarium


"Je raffoule de tout ce qui rampe"
she said, as she led me into the swamp
to show me mud flies with too many legs,
certified colors, but darkly flossed.

"Qu'est-ce que vous avez, mon petit renard?"
she asked, while I protested with broken words,
"Do not compare me to the red fox," I said,
"Writers are magpies, filthy birds."

"Scusez-moi," she replied, her spine in an arch,
"mais je comprend pas de tout." Her eyes were dark.
Let me explain, the people of my trade
sift through rubbish and steal the shiny parts.

Saying "Regardez cet scarabee." she placed
an exotic beetle on my face,
stifling my breath, while she traced
her finger down its golden carapace.

"J'ai desolee. Tu n'es pas comme le renard,
et pas la pie. What is the word?
Tu es comme cet scarabee, et moi,
I'm just crazy about everything that crawls."

*I wasn't planning on putting any poetry up on here. This blog was meant to be a more prosey practicing place, but you know what? This poem is unpublishable because it is rife with blatant plagiarism. Should I give you a clue?

**There's that, and I'm not even sure is the parts in french make sense.