A witty and original song by Mandi and Katie. It will get stuck in your head.

The cup now emptied, the black potion took its course.  New life and vigor coursed through my veins.  With renewed strength I watched my post. Yet this condition did not last–nay it could not.  For dwelling in this same potion lived a spirit. And now he torments me on my left and on my right.  My heart beats fast, but my vitality surely fades.  I hear a sound, but it is naught.  I see a vision, but it is surely a mirage.  And so I sit, captive to the demon I released when once I drank the cup of trembling.

- Me, circa finishing a cup of coffee

A few days ago I decided to cease and desist pursuing an MBA at this time.  Today I wrote DLP Advising to make this official. I simply sent them an e-mail with the subject “Withdrawl” and this ditty by Ada Cambridge:

Good-bye!–’t'is like a churchyard bell–Good-bye! 
    Poor weeping eyes! Poor head, bowed down with woe! 
    Kiss me again, dear love, before you go. 
Ah me, how fast the precious moments fly! 
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

We are like mourners when they stand and cry 
    At open grave in wintry wind and rain. 
    Yes, it is death. But you shall rise again, 
Your sun return to this benighted sky. 
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

The great physician, Time, shall pacify 
    This parting anguish with another friend, 
    Your heart is broken now, but it will mend. 
Though it is death, yet still you will not die. 
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

Dear heart! Dear eyes! Dear tongue, that cannot lie! 
    Your love is true, your grief is deep and sore. 
    But love with pass–then you will grieve no more. 
New love will come. Your tears will soon be dry. 
            Good-bye! Good-bye!

I hope they understand what I’m trying to say.

[The following is more rambling description and narrative than actual story. It is entirely experimental. If you're wondering what happens, so am I.]

As the imminent storm covered the prairie with a blanket of darkness, old Jessepee, the family mule, fidgeted nervously. It wasn’t her first storm by any stretch of the imagination, but each one scared her as much as the first. She continued to whinny and stamp the ground as the distant lightning painted the sky haphazardly. The roll of distant thunder played like a soundtrack for the forthcoming tragedy.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Aimee and her sister Mabel were arguing over dinner plans for the following evening. “If you suggest biscuits one more time, I may kill you” continued Mabel, “You know how I love rolls!”“I don’t care if you do kill me…I’m not eating your rolls. If you want to know the truth…” she paused, choosing her words carefully for full effect, “I’ve never liked anything you’ve ever made. You are quite possibly the worst cook in the world.”Mabel fled from the room, tears streaming down her face.

In the back of the house, Jacob was drawing a bath. As the water poured from the rusty pipes into the large claw foot tub, it drowned out the sounds of the looming storm and the adjacent quarrel. He rubbed the discomfort in his chest, unable to see the struggle beneath the surface. The struggle that had kept him alive all these years, but would soon be ended as quickly as it had begun 75 years ago. His arms shaking beneath his weight, he lowered himself into the steaming water and breathed a sigh. The kind of sigh one can’t truly understand before the age of 70.

As Mabel sobbed in the kitchen, Aimee paced the hall. She knew she would have to apologize, but she was tired of pretending that everything was ok. The crying in the kitchen had stopped now. She paused, reluctant to move or give away her presence. As she stood with her back to the wall, she spied her reflection in the mirror at the end of the hall. Looking into her own eyes, she saw pain. Pain, self-inflicted and untreated.  Tears welling, she began to pity Mabel, and herself.  Her feelings seemed to dance unpredictably between sorrow and anger.  Her pride stood like a shadowy figure between her and reconcilliation with her sister. She glared into the mirror again with self-loathing.

Just on the other side of this shadowy figure sat Mabel.  She leaned into the space between the refrigerator and wall, nursing a cup of water.  Occasional tears seeped from her eyes clinging to her red, swollen cheeks, not unlike the rain which had begun to fall against the glass door leading to the pasture.  She sighed heavily.  Her lungs seemed to cling to each breath, releasing it with the unmistakable sound of sorrow.

The wind began to blow across the pasture to the barn housing miserable Jesseppe.  The barn, born before Jacob, Aimee, or Mabel was badly in need of repair.  The steadily increasing rain fell through the nearly useless roof soaking her brown coat.  Shivering, she continued to pace in the dark, trying to find shelter.

In the back of the house, Jacob continued to soak. The water was much cooler now and his skin was wrinkled and pruny from the excess hydration. He looked at the towel folded neatly a few feet away on the wicker chair.  It might as well have been miles.  His hand rested lazily on the side of the giant tub, spilling water onto the wooden slats below.  The aging porcelain was chipped and frayed, revealing the cast iron surface below.  Were it not for the steady drip from the leaky faucet, he might have sworn time had stopped.

What I found parked next to my car yesterday as I was leaving work.

I can’t imagine the thinking behind this.

An Ode to Fetterman

To thee! Fetterman Fields!
To the time ye fought against the overlords and won our freedom!
To your lovely locks of hair receeding!
To every tooth ye grind with your powerful mandibles!
To every snore that passes the lonely night.
To thee! Fetterman Fields!
You have my sword.
You can be my wing man any day.

Until a moment ago when I was going through my inbox deleting old emails, I didn’t think I had ever written any poetry worth sharing. But then I found this gem. How wrong I was!

Sigh,
Clifton

P.S. Due to the emotional nature of this post, I do not recommend you read it while driving.

James has been following me around with his digital camera recording random moments. We both improvise and the result is hillarious (to us, that is). But, on the off chance that someone besides James and I might enjoy this randomness, here you are: two gems from the Clif and James vault.

Miserable

Fingernail Clippers or Electric Razor?

Do you ever meet people that just give you the creeps? It’s not usually anything in particular; it might be their personal aura that speaks loudly of “”death”" and “”children”". And you just want to go up and ask them “”How many children have you murdered today?”"

But you never actually do, because you are either afraid they’ll take it the wrong way or you’re afraid that they’ll answer with a number higher than 0.

There is one such man in my Business Communications class. Everytime I see him, I feel something akin to what Obi Wan Kanobi must have felt when he said “”I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if more than 0 children suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.”"

I think that is what he said.

I guess there is nothing to do, really. I can’t prove any of this.

All I can do is keep my children away from him. (All of my many ones.)

Nervously,
Clifton

Disclaimer: The following story is true. Only the names, sequence, and actual events have been changed.

The neighborhood just isn’t what it used to be.

Two nights ago, I came home to find Shanna, Mel, and Emily having a rave party. This was obvious because of the eerie, lumanescent glow of a blacklight that they apparently replaced their porch light with.

That and the loud music and dancing.

Well, you may think this was enough to call the ATF, but we, being peaceful people, decided to let it slide…this time.

You can imagine our surprise when yesterday evening Mill Stream Ln. literally became the “”Red Light”" district. The ominous red glow outside their house turns my stomach.

Anyway, I guess I could use this as a “”prayer request”" in philosophy tomorrow.

What is this world coming to?

Clifton

Dear James,

I wanted to talk to you about something. See, you’re sitting on my bed a few feet away from me. But I feel uncomfortable just talking over things with you, so I’m going to write you on my blog.

See, it makes me uncomfortable when you sit on my bed and watch me on my computer. There’s just something unnerving about the situation.

But I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.

So I figure someday, you’ll read this post. And you’ll know how I feel.

Sweet dreams, little buddy.

Clifton