Horizon

So I finally got my copy of PhotoShop to work with this junky Vista computer. PhotoShop is a great program for me because it lets me explore a creative side that I never really had a lot of access to -- visual art.

It's not because I was ever denied the opportunity. High school had many art classes, and even while I lived and studied in Japan, I took a brush painting class offered by my university. The simple fact remains, though, that I'm not particularly talented.
For example, I remember once telling my high school art teacher that the pot I made was abstract art, just so I'd get a passing grade. Never mind that I argued with her the previous week about whether abstract was really an acceptable medium -- a piece of me still thinks it's lazy, and I still don't like looking at it.

I still didn't have a very strong grasp on PhotoShop when I took a class devoted to developing a tutorial for it, Advanced Technical Communication. Now that was a class I'd take again -- it's probably the hardest class I've ever taken, for one simple reason: what we were creating wouldn't just be used to get a grade for myself and my partners, ideally it would be used by every student in the beginner graphics and web design courses to help them earn better grades. That adds a new level of pressure, which I really enjoyed working under.
When I began playing with PhotoShop, to try to get a grasp on it, I found that I had a real affinity for it. I mean, I'll never be the best, or the greatest at it -- I don't have the time or the drive to bother, but it's fun to play with, to let my spontaneous style of creativity combine with the features of PhotoShop (not the least of which is the ability to undo mistakes), and see what I produce in the end.

I'm still a little rusty, it's been about six months since I have really been able to play with PhotoShop on my own time... but this is what I turned up today.

Looking through some of my old files, I came up on this. It is the last academic paper I wrote for Plymouth State University. After being an English: Writing major for about six years, I think I sufficiently earned my B.A. in B.S. and I wanted the opportunity to prove my skills to the world one last time.

The course was a special topics lit course focusing on the twenties. Our professor told us we could write our final paper on any topic we chose... and some students -- most of whom were freshmen -- didn't get the concept of the freedom that had been presented to them.


I understood, though. This was to be my moment of glory.

Extraterrestrial Influences on the Twenties

The twenties defined itself as an age of completely ignorant innocence. In the wake of the “Great War” people attempted to form some semblance of order in their lives – like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had been scattered haphazardly about the world, and then run over by a tank.

This proved itself to be a prime opportunity for visitors from outer space to embed and entrench themselves in world culture. Conspiracy theorists suggest that the television, which was supposedly “invented” in Scotland was either a gift from aliens to cope with the pain of their generation – or a tool that they gave the people of Earth to distract themselves from reality in order to make it easier for the ultimate takeover of the planet to occur.

Perhaps to accompany this cultural razing or directing, aliens – who, until recently, many believed to have come from Mars – planted members of their own race to spark a cultural revolution. The twenties saw literary movements like feminism, perspectives on the world like new criticism, the blossoming of the Harlem Renaissance, and an influx of new readers at least partially sparked by the Book of the Month Club.

A “wise” person, thinking with so-called “common sense” would say that even if aliens exist – after all, they say, in an infinite universe with an infinite number of chances, the odds are extremely high that somewhere out there sentient life exists – that those creatures would likely never come to Earth, and would have no reason to conquer it.

I disagree. Perhaps I would understand their point if evidence did not exist to the contrary: that is, the aliens that live and lived amongst us. One need only look at Charlie Chaplin and his short stature, unnatural movements, and made up face to know, instantly, in your heart of hearts that it was impossible for that man to possibly be human.

Chaplin is a given, though. The true root of the alien menace can be traced far deeper than that – even the conspiracy theorists, too caught up in their delusions of mediocrity would ever realize the connections placed by the alien who called himself T.S. Eliot.

According to popular belief, Eliot – whose name immediately forces one to reminisce of E.T. by Steven Spielberg – was born in 1888 in St. Louis, Missouri. We enlightened souls immediately detect the suspicious circumstances here: who would want to be born in St. Louis? The natural answer that occurs is “no one.” Therefore, it would be reasonable to assume that no one would be born in St. Louis. More than that, some believe that the Arch of St. Louis, the Gateway to the West, is a giant antenna for alien spacecraft. Why not? It serves no other purpose than to block out the glorious light of the sun that is often forbidden in that miserable pit.

One need only look at the life Eliot led to find curious differences that define him as unnatural and inhuman. Eliot moved to Oxford to study after WWI broke out in Europe, and there he spent most of the rest of his life – including “dying” in London in 1965. The uneducated may not realize the significance here: Americans do not move to England and become British citizens; isn’t that counter to the whole idea of the Revolutionary War? This is profound proof that Eliot could not possibly be an American – this is because he was not born in America, or on Earth, in fact – and is a chink in the armor he might call his “civilian disguise”; brought about by a lack of understanding of Earth culture and history.

The next important mistake Eliot made in his cover was his choice of profession: Eliot chose to be a banker. There are two important discrepancies here, the first of which would be that writers are poor. Who would ever trust them to be with, near, or even see real money? The very idea is absurd and if perpetuated might well be the thread that unravels our alien-constructed society. Surely, this is irresponsibility at its highest on the part of our visitors from beyond, and Eliot in particular.

The other point to note is that writers are naturally inhibited mathematicians. In other words, a writer could spell “abacus”, but would be more likely to try to eat the beads or beans that one uses in order to get a decent meal. On the other hand, a banker would hire a writer to spell “abacus” for them, and then foreclose on their pen.

If these facts were not enough to convince someone, one might begin to suspect that they are part of the alien incursion force as well – some need it spelled out for them, though, and one can see that if they take a look at Eliot’s work.

In “The Waste Land”, Eliot immediately outlines the aliens’ plans for Earth – to turn it into a scorched, inhabitable desert. He even says the month the attack will begin in the first line, “April is the cruelest month.”

In line 20, Eliot uses the words, “Son of man,” as though he were addressing the human race but not counting himself among it. A common theme throughout Sci-fi, when aliens don’t want to be redundant and call people Earthlings over and over, they in fact call them “Son of man,” – given this poem, there might be some factual basis.

“There is shadow under this red rock,” in line 26 might indeed be a ploy throw the ultra-perceptive off the trail to Eliot’s home planet. As discussed before, until recently, people believed Mars – the red planet – to be the source of alien life. “I will show you fear in a handful of dust,” the narrator says. What is the weapon of choice for aliens? Disintegration rays. This is a direct threat by Eliot. One can imagine him writing this poem, grinning evilly because he knew the dark truth behind it.

In line 138, the narrator gives a description of his race; “Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.” Think of the common depictions of aliens given by those who have been captured by them – they have large heads and big, lidless eyes.

The next poem that bares analysis would be “The Hollow Men” – one can begin to see the whole new meaning that “The Hollow Men” takes on. “We” are indeed “hollow men”, “stuffed men” – the aliens are wearing human suits.

In line 12, the words “Paralyzed force, gesture without motion” also carry new context. In some reports of alien encounters, when the human would try to approach the alien craft, they would become paralyzed – in some, they claim that the aliens actually spoke to them telepathically; talking directly to their minds. The narrator refers to this strange power in “The Hollow Men.”

It may be possible that Eliot and his compatriots miss home, though. In this poem, the narrator makes repeated references to stars, and that the stars seem to be fading away. It could be that the alien invasion was called off by some cataclysmic event like the invention of “American Idol” on the alien home world, which caused the alien people to give up war entirely, leaving Eliot, Chaplin, and the others trapped on Earth.

The final lines might lead credence to this: “This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper.” Maybe now instead of being blown up by some alien doomsday device, the world will be allowed to continue its natural spiral into destruction. This poem could be considered a resignation from Eliot and his plans for ultimate domination.

Hall points out that in 1965, the year that Eliot “passed away”, marked an upswing in UFO sightings, including a sighting that occurred in France around the time Eliot departed this world – quite literally. (UFO) It is most likely that Eliot’s friends from back home finally showed up to pick him up; it was clear that his human suit was failing and beginning to deform, unlike Chaplin, who remained looking quite young until many years later.

One final major event happened that is another piece to the puzzle: Cats. Written by Andrew Lloyd Weber, the musical is based on Eliot’s “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats”. The nightmarish costumes may well be inspired by Eliot’s true appearance, as aliens are often described as having “clawed hands.”

Ultimately, we may never know the truth – Eliot left clues, and the aliens made mistakes, but they are smart enough to cover up their tracks. What we do know, though, may allow us to change the course of history – the fate imposed on us by the aliens that live amongst us as Eliot did, and who attempted to warp the very fabric of our culture and our humanity into one that served the aliens’ twisted goals.

Works Cited

Eliot, T.S. “The Wasteland.” . May 10, 2007.

Eliot, T.S. “The Hollow Men.” . May 10,

2007.

Hall, Richard. “UFO Occupant Sightings.” .

May 10, 2007.

So after several weeks of waiting (mostly impatiently) and worrying (a lot), I received word from NOVA -- the English teaching school that I interviewed with recently. They want me, and they want me to work at their media center in Osaka.

It feels a lot like everything has come full circle, and things are going my way. I still know I've got a long way to go; least of all is the Visa process! Man, Japan is really strict about the people they let in, and their Visa guidelines are more than a little nit-picky. I forgot about that from when I was applying for my student Visa.

The sooner I get it done, though, the sooner I can leave America. You know, it's not that I hate it here -- although I do, in particular, hate this town that I live in -- I think most of my fellow Americans are amazing, generous, unique people. Even the ones I disagree with: the war mongers, the zealots, the people just too scared to use their minds to think for themselves for once -- they have virtues of their own that I strongly respect.

What it comes down to is that I crave the kind of freedom that I can only have in a place where I don't fit in at all. Most people fear being pushed out into the open like that; with the eyes of the world on you, trying to classify you, to define who you are -- I don't blame them. It's scary. There exists an opportunity, though, a struggle for identity that breaks the mask of who you pretend to be, and deep beneath the layers of deception, for a single shining moment, you can see who you are. Then you can be that person -- yourself -- for the genuine first time.
My years and my struggles brought me to see myself, but now a much more daring question remains: what can I become?

Being a teacher is great. It's a noble profession, and I love to teach. But down the road, in the future, I want to become even more. My wings ache to be spread, and I feel like this is only the first step. Fame and fortune don't interest me; they never have. I just want to stand at the top of this unique world with my own power, clawing up the slopes and avoiding the pitfalls of mundaneness and acceptance. The lull of "good enough" and "almost".

To be honest, I don't know where to go from here, this first step. So I will just dash forward and see where the wind takes me.

"The purpose of a leader is to lead others to lead themselves."

Courage, valor, inspiration, creativity, freedom -- these are not qualities that one can order another to have, like many other virtues these come from within; they are manifested within the mind and the heart of the individual. No book, no myth, no friend or family member, no leader will ever be able to just tell someone to be courageous, or to be inventive.
Not everyone knows how to search for that path inside themselves. The goal of a leader is to help a person get to that point, and then encourage him or her to find the answer for him or herself.
A society of free thinkers needs no leaders and no heroes, for every member is one. It would not be wrong, then, to say that a leader must lead him or herself into obsoleteness.

Before I left college, I said that I would leave behind some of my philosophies on life, particularly those of being a leader. Leadership is a role that I typically tried to avoid, but always found myself involved with. As such, I have developed some rather unique ideas about who leaders are, and what their exact purpose is in our society and our daily lives.
I will set down my own personal views of leadership here over time. Take them or leave them, they are simply the truth as I perceive it, and they are my gift to whomever would wish to learn from them.

Summer is probably the worst time of year for me. I don't feel pressure or stress of any sort, and I kind of need that in my life to at least help me shape my inner creative designs -- although I think most people can attest to the simple fact that what they expect from me is rarely what they get.
Right now, I'm waiting on a response from my interview about a week and a half ago with the school I'd like to work for, Nova. If I can make it, I can be out of America by November, and accomplishing what I've been actively training myself to do for the last two and a half years -- that is, teach English.
My real dream is to go even beyond that, I love teaching English, but I think I can go even further. I'd like to think I have the talent, and at the very least I have the drive -- I can feel the need to do something gnawing inside me even now. Maybe I'm waiting for the opportunity? Or maybe I can't see it?
Either way, right now it's more convenient for me to blame the season than myself. Once something happens, either I'm accepted for this job -- and set to prepare in one fashion, or I'm not, and thrust in an entirely different direction -- maybe then I'll be able to see the future a little more clearly.

One can hope, anyway.

Then again, one can do instead, and accomplish more. I guess I'll work on that.

Shadows cast by the moonlight flickered in and out of existence, engulfed and released by the angry clouds above. Ark observed the cycle cautiously, his head tilted slightly to the right, straining to catch a sound echoing off the winter-withered trees of the sleeping forest.

He could hear only his labored breathing, tinged with the pain of shattered ribs. He forced himself to slow his breath and placed full concentration on just listening.

The silence, as sharp and dangerous as the planted blade Ark teetered on, welcomed him with its peaceful, unconfused lull. He almost thought he could relax.

His shadow blurred, and he whirled to the right like a dancer, raising his sword to ward off a downward sweep that never came. His attacker had anticipated the movement, and instead spun towards Ark's unprotected back, twin swords flashed in the bitten moonlight like snake fangs.

Ark raised his arm even higher, tilting his own sword back over his shoulder. The three weapons hissed together like angry cats. Opening his stance to the right, Ark spun again, cutting wide towards his opponent's side.

It connected with a satisfying thud, right above the stomach as she turned into it. Vengeance wasn't supposed to make anyone feel better; but somehow his ribs felt a little lighter knowing that his partner shared similar grief. The weapons were dulled, not meant to cause permanent harm -- he and Alyrin, though, did not need sharp weapons to hurt. Or weapons at all, for that matter.

She cursed and slid her weapons back into the scabbards she wore on each hip. "Someday, Ark. Someday," she grumbled.

Ark strapped his sword back into his shoulder harness; the cool metal felt good against his burning skin, where the hand guard kissed his neck. He hadn't sweat this much since... well, his last fight with Alyrin, a month ago. "Someday," he agreed noncommittally, his soft voice barely audible, even in the calm aftermath of a duel. "For now," he said, "let's get home."

Each step made his sides groan in agony, and it irked him a little that Alyrin moved like she couldn't feel her own bruises. He resolved to himself to swing harder next time. It wasn't far to the road; less than ten minutes, even moving slowly. It was far enough away, though, that neighbors would not see. The techniques he and Alyrin used were secret -- they'd sworn on their lives to never reveal them to an uninitiated living soul. They were dangerous; it would probably be best if they didn't exist, Ark thought, but they did, and the only way to control it was to limit the people who knew about it.

Too many secrets. They were a mantle he and Alyrin wore, threaded with mercury -- heavy and poisonous. He even had his own, ones he could not share with Alyrin or Sensei. He wondered if they had their own too, as he peered out of the side of his blue-green eyes at Alyrin's soft features. Soft only on the outside. Small and beautiful, she attracted men like Ark attracted troubles. Her straight, waist-length black velvet hair stood in sharp contrast to Ark's short, dark brown that fell back, almost business-like without needing to be combed. Like Ark, Alyrin's eyes were unique -- amber, polished until they glowed with gold -- they shifted color occasionally, from dark, pensive brown, to shining halos when she let her emotions control her. They blazed now; frustration.Those eyes were a mark of who she was, who he was.

Skan'taen. The Gate Knights, in some obscure language that had been long ago purged in the voracious flames of history. Other religions and legends referred to them; but never as the same name, never as the same purpose. Truth be told, he didn't truly believe the reason he had been given.

Still, he knew he had been born for this purpose. From the first day, 16 years before, the sword felt natural in his hands; a simple extension of his body. The blood coursing through his heart pulsed in the sword; they were the same.

Besides that, Alyrin had been there. The slight girl had hid behind Sensei's leg that day peering out at him like he was a dangerous animal. Ark did not know at the time if he could trust the strange man who claimed to be a master of a fighting style called "The Song of the Goddess," but something in her eyes -- something that remained there even now, as he stared at them, fascinated, burned brightly -- a kinship, written in language far more complex than DNA bound them, and had ever since.

The sword, for all its virtues, never had anything on her; the deadly poise, the cool touch, the graceful curves. His reason for life.

She was better than him; he knew that. Faster, smarter, stronger. It was why his ribs were broken and she only sported bruises. Why Sensei favored her. Why life favored her. And that was his advantage; she truly was wind, and he a mountain, scarred and chipped and toughened by Misfortune's weight. Wind was superior in the end, it would wear the mountain to dust -- but it was also hasty, and broke itself on the mountain's cliffs. Once she learned patience, he wouldn't have a chance. He wished he understood his own weaknesses so well. They never seemed so obvious, wisps of doubt that touched his mind like smoke, dissipating into nothingness when he reached out towards it.

"Seeking the answer is the surest way to lose it," Sensei said. He was probably right; until then he would continue to train.

"You know I lost again, Alyrin," he admitted. "I'm in much worse shape than you."

Her eagle gaze fixed on him. "Your attack would have been fatal; mine was just crippling. In a real fight, I'd be dead."

Ark's breath caught for a moment, sending a jolt of pain running down his side. "Don't say that," he said through gritted teeth, "it was just sparring. You won."

Alyrin shook her head. "You still don't get it, Ark. It's not about 'winning'; we're not playing. If we were playing, then it wouldn't be a problem."

"What are we then?"

"Surviving."

The two reached the road, and conversation quickly stopped. Ark reached down and picked up a black ski bag hidden behind an old light pole that had seen better days and warmer winters. Alyrin grabbed a bright red one from nearby. The two slipped their weapons into their bags and tossed them over their shoulders. It was a simple precaution, but one that had saved unsettling questions from being asked before. The neighbors considered them avid cross country skiers. Ark really couldn't think of much he'd rather do less.

They picked their way down the winding road to Sensei's home; a little log cabin set back unobtrusively against the low-middle class homes that huddled together for warmth and protection from the elements on what the town called "The Hill". The tiny New Hampshire town was a victim of Winter -- and rightfully so, believed Ark -- the town could burn for all he cared.

Tiny towns bred tiny minds. Some of the older residents would point at Alyrin, whispering Vietnamese slurs -- and when he pointed out that she was, in fact, Japanese; they would look at her like a mortal enemy. Even the prejudices of WWII still hadn't managed to die. He was almost glad that no one of a Middle Eastern origin had moved to town... he didn't want to imagine how they would be treated. They didn't care for non-Christians either, and the further away one got from it, the worse. He, Alyrin, and Sensei were all outsiders, non-conformists. Alyrin claimed to be a strict Atheist, and Sensei never volunteered his beliefs. Ark didn't know what he believed, if anything. Alyrin's arguments were pretty strong, after all; and what proof did the other side have? Some dusty old legends. About him.

Either way, the whispers, spiced with words like "Hell" and "delinquent", followed him like miasma. Once, an elderly woman called him a villain and said that she'd try to pray him away. He rather liked the thought.

Quaint.

Ignorant.

Sensei wasn't in. The cabin stood stark and silent, a more distinct contrast of the callow neighborhood. Alyrin and Ark looked at each other quizzically. "Did he say he was going anywhere?" he asked her.

"No. Dammit, I can't get in -- I left my keys inside," she grumbled. "Maybe he went to the Kwik Stop to pick up dinner? I told him I didn't feel like cooking tonight."

"Well, I'd invite you over to my house... but... you know... I kinda don't want to do that to you," Ark mumbled.

She leveled a look on him, "It's fine. Let's go!" Those special eyes were shining with laughter at his discomfort.

There was a sudden distortion in the air, like a giant bell had rung soundlessly directly above their heads. The air smelled worse than the mill town's worst days, when the sulfur choked out the pine forest. Ark couldn't breathe at all. Fear.

Alyrin's weapons tasted moonlight a moment before Ark's shone in its pale gaze. She sprung right, and he leaped to the left; each rolling into a defensive stance that protected themselves and their partner. The space to Ark's right rippled and moved. A black clothed arm pushed out of nowhere, and peeled back existence like a curtain before the rest stepped through.

It's horned, bleeding mask fixed them in an insidious grin; fire rolled off it like sweat, sending up steaming vapor trails from where it fell into the snow.

Gods might not exist, Ark thought, but demons did.

I guess now is as good a time as any. For a while now, I've been working on a new story -- something a little unique. The book is up to its twelfth chapter now, and although everything needs heavy revision, I would like to begin sharing it with the world; after all, you're the audience I'm writing for, and I need to make sure it's up to your standards.
If you're a person easily offended by the complexities of religion, or questions that may force one to question his or her own personal faith, this probably isn't the story for you. Or maybe that is exactly why I wrote it. Buwahahahahaha.

/////////////////////Yin and Yang only met
///////////////////////////////////each other once, in the peace
////////////////////////before creation.

//////////////////////This tale, too, carries
////////////////////////////////long forgotten memories
///////////////////////in an endless dance.

//////////////////////////Kaguya-hime
///////////////////////shed sunset’s royal mantle,
///////////////////////slipped into velvet.

//////////////////////Her shadow eclipsed
///////////////////the very heart of the world
//////////////////////and bathed it in light.

////////////////////////Today the cyclic
////////////////legend rewrote itself as
//////////////////////her pale silver eyes

///////////////////////swam in sapphire
/////////////oceans a lifetime away,
///////////////////////recalling nothing.

//////////////////////Although the story
///stirred some distant memory,
/////////////////////she brushed it aside.

////////////////////The dream of the world
///////////////////was written in Fuji’s smoke,
////////////////////and drowned in silence.


///////////////////////////////--完--

Welcome to the sanest place in the universe.
My name is Ark, the Prophet of the Great Cheesewheel of Life that Protects Us from the Spinning Golfball of Doom out in Space.

All hail.

This blog is dedicated to what I call 'creative evil'. Why? I guess you have to answer that for yourselves, that's just what the Big Cheese told me to call it, if you know what I'm saying. Don't mess with it.
I am also accepting applications to join my elite bodyguard of ninja philosophers, or ninjalophalers as they prefer to be called. Say it out loud, you know you want to. Qualified candidates must have a mind and free will of their own, capable of making their own decisions without outside influence -- ability to single-handedly fight off a squadron of rogue fire hydrants bent on vengeance preferred, but not required.

At any rate, make yourselves at home. The evil's about to start.