Wasted Potential.

I know what I am.  My third grade teacher pointed it out to me.  In some ways I cannot help but feel disappointed in my final project.  In others I laugh at my arrogance.  I do not care for the A or the B.  A C is just fine with me, I simply sit in college for one reason or the other.  But mostly I'm just there for the piece of paper that says I'm employable.  I am reminded of the ant and the grasshopper story.   One plays all year and starves, the other works all year and lives.  The moral of the story... Haha.
Today instead of working on these posts I spent the day relaxed, enjoying the company of my nephews.  We went out for Ice Cream.  It is so funny watching a 3 year old eat ice cream.  When we left the ice cream stand two things happened on the way home.
First which is funny, we left the ice cream cone in a bowl on the trunk of the car.  When noticed it still sitting there we pulled over.  As my brother grabbed the cone off the trunk he hit his elbow.  My nephew asked his dad if he would be alright.  My brother jokingly responded, "No Jamez it's a good thing we we pulled over in a funeral home because I might die."
"What's a funeral home?" He asked.
There was this awkward silence in the cars as the adults tried to think of the response.  I ended up just telling him the truth.  "Well buddy, when people die.  We take them here and this home makes them all pretty so we can say good bye to the ones we love one last time."  I'm watching him, as I explain this complex idea in as little words as possible.  Because in truth what the hell is a funeral?  But as I watch, I can tell he is listening, like he knows I'm talking about something profound even if he can't quite comprehend.  Trying to move onto a less somber topic my brother asks his eldest son, "How was school today?"  He started off by telling us a story his teacher told them about lion's teeth, alligators teeth, beaver's teeth, and on and on about teeth... the end.
My brother laughed, and his son asked him what a moral was.  The second profound question of the day.  For a moment the adults were silent yet again as we tried to answer.
So the grasshopper dies, and the ant lives.  Hard work prevails?
But when the ant dies what kind of life did he live?
For the past month I had thought about our project.  I know I delivered crap and we will address that in time.  I've trying to write a story.  That's why I sat down in American Literature, to make time to read stories I wouldn't otherwise read.  Also as a secondary prize I got a chance to show off my literary genius.  Arrogant, yes I know and I have been told as such.  But it is truthful.
One of the ideas that cropped up in my story was one of robotics, artificial intelligence... Does a robot have a soul?  I cannot help but think of the book, "Do Robots Dream of Electric Sheep?"  WHich was the basis of Bladerunner.  One of the last movies to be filmed without the use of computer special effects.  As I thought about that, I tried to find other stories.  I found one written by Edgar Allen Poe, titled; "The Man That Was Used Up."  But it fell a bit outside the timeline of our genre.  It's about a man who fought in the civil war.  The public sees him as perhaps it's most shining figure, and all the ladies of the town lust over his physical appearance.  Aside from that no one seems to know anything about him.  By the stories end, the author has discerned that the man destroyed in war was entirely rebuilt by man.  Then I found a beautiful story, written by C.L. More.  It's titled "No Woman Born." It's about a dancer who was burned in a fire and she is rebuilt by science.  The doctors wonder how she'll cope living in a world of sight and sound.  In the end we begin to see her disconnect with humanity.  And the creator question their creation, just like Frankenstein.  I was fascinated to learn that C.L. wrote under a pseudonym with her husband at times.  One of the stories they wrote would become the basis of the movie, "The Last Mimzy."
But I felt the ideas of robots, might be a bit over played.  So I dropped the idea.
Dying earth.  I found so many stories dealing with this subject.  Like Jack London's "The Scarlet Plague."  And Bradbury short story "There Will Come Soft Rains."  Which is based of a poem of the same name by Sara Teasdale.  Written in the 1920's it is about the battle fields post world war one.  I thought about all the things  I wanted to say, and then instead of working I played.  I fired up the Playstation 3 and played video games all day long.
I was very impressed by with the presentations, and ashamed of my work.  I walked in expecting a C, and that is what I got I set my self up to fail.  And I need to quit that,  I should've adopted an author or rewrote a poem.  But what if, one can balance the grasshopper and the ant.  The middle path is the thin trail I'm trying to walk.  A very buddhist thought.
Enjoy your summer.

The words flow from my brain, strange and deranged. 

Like a drain, I can feel the pain.

The evil in this world is relative, is it because we see good?  Like beauty and the beast.  It’s only the ugliness in this world that creates the colors swirl.  I’m hopping topics like a squirrel.

My brain’s deranged strange thoughts flow from its pain.  I’m caught in its tormenting swirl. 

Like the monsoon’s rain, I’m just seeking release from its evil deeds.  Planted seeds of doubt sprout.  I’m out and about exploring the world’s cultures, overhead the vultures twirl.  A wayfarer in a desolate land, am I insane, or just walking alone?

Am I a Brahmin or just a misplaced warrior, more than likely I’m a child of god.  Touched with an untouchable grace, I’m just seeking Moksha.  A release from my pain.  It’s time for a change of pace.

I’m seeking a release from this place.  Does it matter if it’s Shangri-La or just a heaven.  I’m at the seven-eleven making my decision.  It’s a choice that’s mine, and mine alone to make.  I can’t shake this grace…

I’m seething in hatred, and I’m in your face like Shiva dancing on a demon.  Like the Ramayana, I’m just searching for my Sita.  Does it matter if its Hanuman, or Enkidu who lights the way.  At the end of the day it’s just another guru’s tale.  Are you prepared for man’s fall from grace?

There she stands, skulls laced around her neck.  Blood wets her neck, from her fanged teeth life falls.  Who will answer the goddess’s call?  Reborn into this maya.  Out with the old, and in the with new.  The cycle of rebirth.  The curse of Karma, decrees your custom of dharma.  Please save me….

Oh Devi, great mother Durga.  Wash me clean, cleanse my filth in the river Ganges.  Please accept my puja offering.