Once Upon a Fever Unchecked

That title is actually that of a pom I wrote while under the brain-frying influence of the before-mentioned fever. Speaking of this fever, I apologize, I have either been to busy or too ill to do anything of late. And that is half of the story as to where I have been and not updating this blog.

Now, on the actual subject of this fever, I hated it. Usually when fevers come, so do fantastic dreams. Dreams containing such imaginary things as glass-bottom airplanes and what not that make fever dreaming worth the fever. I had three odd dreams, but nothing special. The first I was a preceptor, but I forgot my lesson plans and decided to do a lecture on rambling for the sake of rambling. This dream was very slow-paced and dull. The second I was a member of the parliament, a very bad member of such. I sat there, some unidentifiable queen was asking a question of me that I just couldn’t hear, and a peanut was singing on the floor to loudly to allow audibility to anything else in the room. The entirety of the dream was me tying to figure out what the queen had asked. In the third I was a jicama root. Not even really the body of the root structure, but a small off-shooting root of. I made it half way down a conveyer belt and was cut off of the main body. From there I followed the terribly-short life of the discarded piece of a jicama root.   Not really my ideas of fun, but they were my dreams, so I really don’t know what to make of them.

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A work in Progress and a Gift from Cyra October Dalton

I never though I would look at a picture of myslef and think: Daawwww

I never though I would look at a picture of myslef and think: Daawwww

Isn’t he cute? It is a little drawing of William Methuselah Dalton, the character of my insanity after which I chose my pen name. I just think he is adorable. He is a work in progress, but I just wanted to show him off. The artist, my sister, writes and draws under the alias, Cyra October Dalton.

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Transcending Time and the Graveyard of Poetry

I managed to write two poems earlier today, breaking a long streak of perpetual writer’s block. It felt odd, though. Not to toot my own horn, but the second one was one of divine beauty and grotesque foreboding. (I have people, though family, willing to defend this poem’s greatness.) It felt odd, however, seeing the date on something I enjoyed as much as I did this. Many of my favorite poems are centuries old, but this one was signed December of 2012. I am not about to rank myself with any of the real poets such as Alexander Pope, but I cannot help but wonder if he had a favorite poem, as old to him as his are to me. Did he feel this same sense of comfortable-discomfort that I did today? Is there a name for this feeling? Will any poet 100+ ears from now feel the same way about the poem I wrote today, appropriately titled “Love’s Dying Wish”?

Unfortunately, it is more likely that my poems will end up in the endless stream of forgotten poetry. Everyday is poetry conducted, in the viewing of birds playing in the wind, on the back of a hastily-crumpled napkin, within the nose upon smelling something sweet, even in the minds of children bickering over a toy. Nearly anything can be poetry in the eyes of another. But what happens to this poetry, whether never written, never published, or never revered? Is it somewhere in the mind of another budding poet, stuffed in the bindings of a library book lost on the shelf, or even dissolved into drier lint after an accidental washing. Are these even possibilities, or are these poems lost to us all? Where are they?

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Procrastinating like a Pro.

Procrastination. We all do it. You do it, your neighbor does it, even those with positive work ethic do it, like Hufflepuffs. I am doing it right now. What is procrastination? I will give you dictionary.com’s definition shortly after I dump mine on you, which will be done in a novel-of-a-rant format.

Procrastination is that plague that only affects those who have something they need to do. Someone with nothing to do at all can happily sit there doing exactly that, nothing. But it is when that – essay you have been putting off, which is an example of procrastination, is to be handed in the following morning that the urge to do nothing really takes place. I can’t say it is an urge to do nothing, really, because in the act of procrastinating you do anything but what you should be. If one  has procrastinated correctly, they will have done everything but what they should.

This is annoying because there is no way around it. As little credit as I would like to give the human conscience, one can hide nothing from it. You can’t sit with a calculator and your checkbook in front of you and tell yourself that you will be washing your car. I have tried that, more or less, with my homework in the past. It just doesn’t work. Even more annoying still is when you have nothing to do and you want to do something. It is very rare that I have absolutely nothing I need to be doing, but when it does occur, I want nothing more than to get up and start doing every other chore in the house.

Well, this has been my rant, more or less. I have been doing more work than any sane man would, and it is all self-inflicted. I can’t complain, nor will I, but I can promise you, the reader, that what little I am able to put up over the next few weeks will be short. Unedited is a given, I never do that when I do have time for it. Anyway, as promised, follows the dictionary.com definition of procrastinate.

pro·cras·ti·nate

verb (used without object)

1. to defer action; delay: to procrastinate until an opportunity is lost.

 verb (used with object)

 2. to put off till another day or time; defer; delay

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Nothing Gets Done Without Necessity

I find it much easier to write, or do most semi-important things, when the word used is need. If I were to sit there and tell myself that I “should” write, then I most likely won’t. Had I told myself that I “need” to write, then there is nought that could stop me from doing so (perhaps the unavoidable, like death).  Something as small as a word could make a world of difference in the mood of something. Nothing gets done without necessity.

Another thing I have noticed is that it is easier to do the semi-important when there is a major necessity, like school or work. Something about doing what needs to be done helps set an atmosphere f productivity. Same goes for the opposite. If I had a project that was due in a week, I would not be able to work on it a day that I were to play video games. When I go to school, I find more enjoyment in homework than video games. Though, Perhaps I am just crazy.

This has been a mini rant so that I could, hopefully, discuss my amateur passion. As I have mentioned before, I write stories for fun. Well, I find it difficult to actually do any creative writing on this site, as perfect as it may be for my philosophical rants. I was just wondering, if I were to find another site for more creative pieces of literature, would anyone actually read it? You have seen my horribly unedited writing style. I can go from wringing socks to singing rocks in an instant. I mean, I am going to do so, anyway, but I just wanted to know what you, the reader, thought.

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A note of apology.

Where does the time go? I remember, as a youth, that time could not possibly go any slower, but now it slips from the small cracks between my fingers as one knows sand often does. These past few days, the sands of time have been more water than aught. I have even failed to post a rant the last few days, and if today is anything like Tuesdays, I will not be able to have one up, again. So I have come to the conclusion that what I am doing is not working. Anyone who has ever left a comment knows that I get to them eventually. I want to know what you, the reader, would like me to break down in smaller bits, and ultimately over complicate to the point that Rivera looks like Picasso. If you don’t want your comment to be approved, if for any reason you don’t want me to say what topic is yours, then let me know in the comment. If you, the reader, still, don’t wish to give me a topic, I understand and should stop being lazy. There is so much in this world to over complicate, what stands out to you, yes, the reader?

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Disclaimer, Setting, and Prologue

Informal disclaimer: I own nothing in this story. Even though most of it is my own madness, I can’t actually claim any of it. All of the characters and their names are fictional. If for any reason you think you may know one of my characters, or they have your name, it is coincidental, and I think you have an amazing name. Either way, I am not changing it. Sorry.

Setting: My story takes place in a small town by the name of Newstory. (Feel free to say it as though two words, that is as it should sound, and it is hard to train the mind to say it any other way.) It is three weeks to the end of summer recess. The town, being entirely fictional, is as dynamic as it can be, while trying to maintain that illusion of reality. I ask that you forgive me, I have yet to write a story of this kind. (Okay, this has nought to do with setting, I am moving on, now.)

 Prologue:

      The late summer sun hovered lazily over the small town of Newstory, showing early signs of the cool autumn ahead. Soft clouds droned across the sky as they often did this time of year. The weather, as peaceful as it was, did not mirror the, in a sense, active town below.

      Newstory was one of those towns in which something was always happening. One could look at any one of its many less than busy streets and see something odd, but never out of the norm.

      At the lowest point of this hilltop town one could see smoke rising from the burning remains of what was once meant to be a flying car. The would be inventors, Karl Tesla, age twelve, and Luigi Vinci, age fifteen, were standing at their driveways on opposite sides of the street. Both red-faced, not from the heat of the fire nor from the heavy scolding they have received, but from the shame of failing for the twenty-second time that summer.

      In a neighborhood about three up, one would find Beth Shakespeare, age sixty-four, exchanging gossip with Alexandra Poe, age forty-one. While Poe’s two children, Adam, age seven, and Clarissa, age sixteen, sat swinging in their backyard. Gregory Poe, age thirty-nine, was still at work.

     The top of the hill housed few families. Those who did live there were more privileged than others, though not always quite as happy. There were only three children at the top. There was Robert Rockefeller, age seventeen, and his sister, Janet, age sixteen. Two houses down lived Jeremy Gates. Robert and Jeremy shared an odd friendship, while Janet was one of the adults, stuck-up and boring.

      Believe it or not, as odd as it is now, the town of Newstory is about to get even more so. The adventure on which I am about to take you will prove that life is as unpredictable as the role of a die, assuming you are willing to indulge me as I stumble through the existence of this town and its more than questionable history. (This is part of the prologue, I will edit it all to make sense and look well, later.)

Okay, this is all I have, for now. I am going to work on this story, but, for now, I am still collecting names. I will try to make this world as real as possible, but that is not my talent. Until next time, This has been the failed attempt of Storyteller William M. Dalton.

(I am going to be honest, I have yet to edit any of this. Perhaps I will do that as I work on more of the prologue and further bits of the story. Anyway, farewell.)

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