The Portrait of Zool

(conversion confusion, this is actually the fourth post) "No, I agree, it was a silly question." *Zool's ego is much assuaged.* ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Zool awakens from sleep in a frenzy of terror, his eyes wild, his hair standing on end, sweat pouring from every pore. In his nightmare, Brute never finished his story... ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

I hope Excedrin likes feedback - cause I have some. I really like this poem, but what is it about? That question is very central to critiqueing this poem, because at first reading it can appear unfocused, vague, disjointed. It covers so much ground, and entails so many complex metaphors and references that it may be very difficult to tie it all together. I think this is easily explainable because it is ultimately about change, but more on that later. I feel the author did a fantastic job, but more important than the technical skill at manipulating emotions or structure or painting visions in our skulls, which the author shows in abundance, I prize this poem so highly for the the depth with which it was written - for having been written from the heart. That is what makes this poem so powerful. Even though it is full of pain, fear, and disapointment, the feelings are REAL, and vividly portrayed. Though it is a very complex poem, the reader feels and identifies with the emotion, some more than others, but the author covers that too, which is yet another revealling layer of complexity. I think all people at one time or another will feel this pain (except Ronald Reagen), but I really have to hand it to this author for haveing navigated through this complex labyrinth of emotions and counter emotions without losing his way so that, correctly read, it can serve as a roadmap for the rest of us, and THAT is what writing from the heart is all about, because all hearts are alike inside, it's just getting inside that's tough. Anyway... The title has everything to do with this poem in my mind, and I will reference the appropriate points when I come to them. Excedrin sets the stage with this line; "Sometimes, for a moment of bliss And the passion, we're craving" This is the works first opening of flaw (thus, the drama we are drawn into). "Sometimes, for a moment of bliss And the passion, we're craving" To me, this carries every evidence of an addiction. Now, addiction is a strong word, but I feel it is entirely appropriate here, and that the rest of the psyche of the poem hinges on this addiction. To go on; "There's a message we miss Sometimes when, the spirits left alone We must believe in something To find if we've grown" The opening stanza is the key to understanding the entire poem. We have the craving of passion, then, there's a message we miss. "Sometimes when, the spirits left alone We must believe in something To find if we've grown". We have words like "miss" and "Left alone", followed by the suggestion that without outside direction we will be unaware of our growth. The passage wreaks of a dull anxiety, of angst added to valuelessness - sort of the angst of the new millenium. How else can we properly judge the state of our growth but by the values we keep? A very powerful message. The second stanza thrusts us into a psychic scene, counterpointing the opening stanza. In the first stanza we had a sense of time, of proportion and of identity. Not here; Tragic reflex, shattered calm Static progress, senses gone Numb awareness, final psalm From this I get a sense of extremes, going from the physical sensations to the biblical, placing me in a spiritual verses physical dilemna. The author's structural evocation of the distance between the divine and the gross (physical) is very apt for this subject. Every line, every word further supports or builds the emotional nuance within the experience, the stated opposites stabbing with their uncompromising finality into the mind, opening it to encompass the entirety of the dilemna. The next stanza is the strongest metaphorically, and honestly bears repeating 3 times. "Swept away with the tide" Here we have the image of the inevitableness of the tide over time, another admission of the pressures in the poems drama. "Through the holes in my hands Crown of thorns at my side" Holes in his hands, by what? To me this obviously refers to the crucifixition, of the Christ's sacrifice, and so we must all sacrifice our youth, and shoulder the responsibilities that will save our selves - and what of the rebirth that comes from the sacrificial death? The author does not say. That the mark of his sacrifice is described as the instrument of his failure is to be explained in more detail later. The crown at his side signifies that he is not his savior - yet. "Drawing lines in the sand" The last line of the refrain amplifies the futility and frustration felt at having given away the passion of his youth - for what? Our subject does not know, or rather as we shall see he does know, but is it worth it? Here I first see a glimmer of reference to the title, which is amplified each time this stanza is repeated. "Sometimes, if you're perfectly still You can hear the virgin weeping For the savior of your will Sometimes, your castles in the air And the fantasies you're seeking Are the crosses you bear" Here he states perfectly the conundrum of a soul caught between the visions of his dreams, the "fantasies" and "castles in the air", and the disillusionment of his reality, and how much his dreams and his demands to see them realized hurt him - But who can just toss away their dreams? "You can hear the virgin weeping For the savior of your will," transposes his "will" in the role of savior. He feels he has paid the price, but the expected trade-off isn't there, he isn't saved, and he has no one to blame but himself, thus making his dreams "the crosses you bear". The virgin weeping for the savior shows the responsibility the subject feels for his self-defeat. The prelude to the second refrain matches the structure of the other refrain prelude, this time on an even more personal level. Here he states a perfect distillation of every major theme, and conjures a sense of helpless witnessing in the end; "Sacred conflict, blessed prize Weeping crosses, stainless eyes Desperate addict, faith disguised" "Sacred conflict, blessed prize," we covered as the dilemna of the life's demands versus the subject's higher aspirations, echoing the title again. "Weeping crosses, stainless eyes," paints a scene of tragedy, and unfeeling, uncaring witnesses, perhaps on both the spiritual and physical levels. It evokes the feeling of being misunderstood, or worse, ignored. "Desperate addict," echoes the opening revelation of the conflict. "Faith disguised" I surmise refers to a public face, but here the reference is perhaps too personal. It could refer to the emptiness felt when one is hopeless, even when enjoying consolation or refuge, or a combination of the meanings. I'm not sure on this one. The next stanza is fully about his consciousness of the situation, the mechanism of how we are our own worst enemy by placing a crushing responsibility over our heads, and how it changes a person. "We fabricate our demons Invite them into our homes Have supper with the aliens And fight the war alone We conjure up our skeletons Enlist the den of thieves Frightened from our closets Then sewn upon our sleeves" It is possible to think too deeply down the wrong channel. Here, as he often does in the poem, the author portrays a scene of helplessly watching as he destroys himself. The fears and desires are personal, but the locked battle is layed bare. "In the stream of consciousness There is a river crying Living comes much easier Once we admit We're dying" The first two lines refer to a deep sadness, a beautiful metaphor tying together the self (stream of consciousness), force (the river) and sadness (crying), with the last two combined beautifully and segueing to the depiction of his submission to the pain toward his eventual transmutation. The mood or "moment" of this poem describes a quiet frustration, a desperate acceptance, of riding that cusp between expectation and cold reality - you might call it an "early life crises". In the line, "Living comes much easier once we admit We're dying", the author describes a sense of loss of self in the submission to the demands of life, of living. That is how one feels when one loses his self, as if he were dying, like a golem pulled through his days by strings which are not his. No joy, no passion, no hope. In this case, the death is very real, the death of his romantic youthful notions about reality. As he points out in the previous stanza, our demons are self made. "Sometimes, in the wreckage of our wake There's a bitterness we harbor And hate for hatred's sake Sometimes we dig an early grave And crucify our instincts For the hope we couldn't save" Resentment and bitterness at the choice he feels he has to make. This is the fulcrum of the pain, the bitterness of having to give up what the subject feels is rightfully his, and resentment for not getting what he feels is rightfully his. Sometimes a view from sinless eyes Centers our perspective And pacifies our cries Sometimes the anguish we survive And the mysteries we nurture Are the fabrics of our lives Here the poem admits to the healling power of momentarily pulling out of the crushing perspective of self judgement and the desire for immediate rewards. It goes on to capture the essence of the forces that are so compelling, revealling the loss of spiritual perspective as the destructive pressures surge, and all those dreams are "Swept away with the tide". Swept away with the tide Through the holes in my hands Crown of thorns at my side Drawing lines in the sand What is the final resolution of the subject in "I Can't Write, Can You?"? The author does not say, but I would hope that he would say "Yes" to life instead of fighting it so. One must have his dreams, but mysteriously, accomplishment is rooted in mundanity, and fortunately too, for this is what makes accomplishment possible. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know. Edited by: Zool47 at: 2/20/02 3:09:21 pm

Now THAT'S funny! ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Bah! I need to explore the Pen more! Almost missed these. My opinion? You're a genius - but you knew that. Keep it up. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Yes, very inspiring. It resonates with me too... except I want James Brown to sing my eulogy. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know. Edited by: Zool47 at: 2/6/02 12:07:50 pm

(conversion error, this should be the sixth post in this thread.) www.thehip.com/hypercd/meridian.htm ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

We are looking forward to your being around for a while. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Amen. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

All is quiet in the great hall. Occasionally one of the curious inhabitants of the Keep scuttled by, busily searching for he or she knew not what, but not finding what they weren't looking for, he or she quickly moved on to not find anything somewhere else. Otherwise, lazily spinning dust, caught by the rays of sun light in the spinning currents of air flowing through the trackless corridors was the only life. Even the great portraits spaced throughout the length of the hall seemed to hold their breath. Then, to the keen observer, there was movement. One of the painting's eyes had curiously come alive. First they looked left, then they looked right. Then the paint itself seemed to come alive, as the head moved from side to side, searching the hall, the paint and brush strokes flowing to accurately depict the subject as he moved. It was, of course, the picture of Zool. Seeing that the quiet had turned up nothing suspicious, the painting took an accurately depicted breath, and relaxed. The figure appeared to step back, though being only two dimensional he made all the movements of stepping back and shrunk. Or did he? As he did so, one ChromoZool painted arm shot up, as he appeared to trip over something and fall backwards, falling in a heap at the bottom of the frame. Unlike the depiction, however, the swearing was authentic. "What the..." began Zool, as he tugged agitatedly at what he had tripped over from under him. After some struggling, he produced a rather ugly pair of pants. "...heck?" They weren't his style, and they weren't even his size. And... "How did these get here!?" he wondered aloud, as the translation from the 3 dimensional world to his 2 dimensional world was no easy feat. Then something else caught his eye. From the edge of a broken stone wall in the 'background' of his portrait was a gleam that hadn't been there before. Craning his neck from where he sat he could almost make out what it was. Just then he heard approaching footsteps. Zool began to sweat.

Meanwhile, back at the animation studio... "Cut!" Steven Spielburg sat immediately behind the cameraman, peering into the monitor as the action unfolded. Satisfied, the special guest director looked through a sheaf of papers titled in handwritten sharpie script (Sic) "The Mitey Pen - Quill quest.". Suddenly a strange blue glow enveloped the set. Steven turned a page, his attention riveted to the printed words, oblivious to the tinted room, the sound of the sheet of paper piercingly loud to everyone else present, as though amplified in the sudden quiet on the makeshift set. The blue glow intensified. Ozymandias' sketch pad began to tremble. His drawing of the ambulatory Pen trembled, then fluttered as if in a high wind. With a hefty 'Thwap' it bucked up into the air and out popped the figure of the little line drawing of a ball point pen with the skinny arms and legs in the air, as if three dimensional. The pad fell back down to the desk ready for writing and the figure of the pen with arms and legs settled on top of the page, poised for writing. Ozymandias looked up from the floor in dismay, but all he could see was a diffuse blue glow against the ceilling and the edge of the desktop like a distant clifftop above him. Then the fog cleared slightly. He heard the scratching of a pen on paper. With a growing curiousity, he painfully pried himself from the floor, but his sleepy state and recent fall worked against him. He bagan to hear strange sounds... "Scratch, scritch, scratch scratch... RIIIIP!" Dazed but Intrigued, Ozymandias made his way closer to the edge of the desktop. "Scritch scratch, scritch scriiiiiitch... RIIIIP!" His hand made it's way to the edge of the top of the desk. With that leverage he foggily pulled his eyes up over the edge to witness what was taking place. "Scratch, scritch, scratch scratch, scriiitch... RIIIIP!" His rendition of a pen had taken on a life of it's own. He took it in, then doublechecked to make sure. Yep, The Pen, putting it's lined point to the sketch pad from which it had sprung, was writing furiously. Suspended in the air it was writing by itself, without attendant hand. To complicate things was an odd unaccountable blue glow permeating the local environment. As the pen filled each sheet, the sheet ripped itself off and fell to the floor, then the Pen started writing again at the top of the next page. He saw; "...when the ancient curse has been lifted, and the ancient gate has opened, When the ancient book of maps is left untouched, for direction, when life is thought to be over, and begins... for the five directions have been travelled, healling the ancient wound... Then," "RIIIIIIIIIIP!" that handwritten page fell to the floor, and the pen started at the top of the next blank page. "Only then, in the library of all the knowledges, past, present, future, shall be found the quill, the quill of dreams, writing on the white paper of existance with the black ink of experience..." "RiiiiiP!" Next page. Ozymandias hung at the desk's edge for almost a full minute, just taking in the inexplicable sight. Just then Wyvern came out of a side door and spied the curled sheets of paper on the floor. "Thank God!" he shouted as he scooped them up and hurried back to the open door. "You have no idea how bad I need these scraps!" Inside the door a commode could be seen with the top lid up, and next to the commode, an empty spool of obvious design. Ozymandias watched blankly as Wyvern walked hurriedly, his arms loaded. With the sudden realization of the sheets eventual fate, Ozymandias bolted for the hurrying figure, scurrying along the floor like a snake. Catching him by the heel, the unsuspecting Wyvern went down in a heap, still clutching the sheets of paper. "Let go Ozzy!" he said in consternation and alarm. Both figures squirmed on the floor uncomfortably, Wyvern trying to move into the open bathroom and Ozymandias holding him fast. "You don't know the danger you're in!" Wyvern shouted, and twisting, struck a stiff pose on his back, legs clamped together, eyes crossed. "Give me those papers! I must have those papers!" Ozymandias clambered along the floor as well as his pounding head would take him, straining to reach the notes falling from Wyvern's grasp. Seeing Ozy struggling to hold him back, Wyv renewed his scramble to the open door of the bathroom. Ozy grabbed his leg again. "No you don't!" The cameras kept rolling, Steven still oblivious. "Ozy, I HAVE to have these papers - some papers - RIGHT NOW!" Though struggling with the frantic Wyvern, Ozymandias' head had finally begun to clear. Still holding Wyvern's ankle in one hand with an iron grip, Ozy rolled over on his back and stretched out his free hand toward the bottom droor of his desk. With the tip of his finger, he was just able to pull the droor out and produce a roll of Wyvern's desire. With a quick flick of his wrist he flung it in a graceful arc toward Wyvern's head. As Ozy watched the toilet paper rise into the air in a graceful trajectory, the moment seemed to freeze. For just a moment, at the top of it's arc, the roll appeared to float in the air, trailing a short length of squares, pure white against the darkened ceilling high above the glare of the camera lights, faintly reflecting the blue glow from the surrounding air, appearing for the moment as much more than simply the object of it's mundane fate, but seeming, for the moment, almost as an icon of salvation. Wyvern looked up. Ozy released the ankle at Wyv's look of recognition. Wyvern jumped, papers flying, grabbed the roll, and was a blur sprinting into the bathroom. The door hit the wall and bounced shut at his passing, sparing everyone the spectacle of what happened next. Not seen, but heard. It was over in seconds. The flatulent sounds filled the room as the blue glow left. Time returned to normal with the lighting. Normal awareness returned. "Eeeeeew!" groaned the film crew. Ozymandias was on his hands and knees, busily searching for every errant sheaf. "Somebody help me collect these papers!" he called, ignoring the natural disaster in the next room. He found the sheet with the drawing of the pen on it, and nothing else. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. "Did you see that roll?" Steven asked incredulously, still staring into the air above where Wyvern had been laying a moment before. ~Zool~

Cool!

Next time, come back as "Fred". Don't be gone too long. We will always remember you, but we would rather hang with you. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

It certainly is... tragic. Beautifully tragic. The depth of the sorrow and remorse the poem conveys is truly touching. ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

LOL! ~Zool~ Ancient, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

"Scarlet blooms flower unbridled upon life’s fields," Wounds in flesh. "...as autumn’s last gentle breeze drifts silently past the lips of season’s end." Dying breath. "As the sun longs the beauty of a flower with which to share its light in the depth of winter, the petals are but remnants of purity on the frozen earth…" The tragedy and horror of destruction. The suns longing becomes a simile for the longing of life, paired with the metaphor of the petals (wounds) on the earth (dead body). "Snow falls faintly as blankets of soft serenity spread their ambrosia ‘cross scarlet woe, to rid this land ‘ere more... the life it once breathed." This is the most poetic description, describing a scene of the peace of death befalling a person bleeding to death. ~Zool~

Now, you should find your way. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Out steps a rubber chicken with a mask on his rubber head and a bandana tied around his neck, hung over his back like a cape. Producing a small red bottle, he pries out the stopper with his stubby rubber wing tips and downs the contents. He strikes a heroic pose. *Cue music* When you find yourself in danger, When you're threatened by a stranger, When it looks like you will take a lickin', (puk, puk, puk, puk) There is someone waiting, Who will hurry up and rescue you, just Call for Super Chicken! (puk, ack!) Fred, if you're afraid you'll have to overlook it, Besides you knew the job was dangerous when you took it (puk, ack!) He will drink his super sauce And throw the bad guys for a loss And he will bring them in alive and kickin' (puk, puk, puk, puk) There is one thing you should learn When there is no one else to turn to Call for Super Chicken! (puk, puk, puk, puk) Caaaaall for Super Chicken! (puk, ACK!) The rubber chicken looks down at himself, and sees no change has occurred. He tries to jump into the air, but a sloshing sound comes from his bloated feet as his thin chicken ankles stretch and then snap him back down to the ground. He drags one foot up and shakes it to hear the sloshing sound again. Sloshing off stage left, his rubber skin glows a faint pinkish... ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Are you making a comment about my buns? ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

This is my real life... Hiya J. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Different methods take... different methods. Work at it. What is it you don't like about the poem? What is it you are trying to say? What emotion are you trying to evoke? What moment are you trying to convey? Where do your printed words fail to work? Change the words. Try different things. Play with it. You may write something great the first time - you may eventually throw the whole thing away. But you don't know till you try. There is a romantic notion, in the original definition of romanticism, which relates to unconscious action (like passion), which demands that things, like good poetry, just 'happen'. But as a mind matures, it becomes by definition more and more aware of what is going on around it, of the underlying process of things. Eventually, one must mature beyond the romantic notions - not to say there isn't shadow and mystery to the creative process, there always will be - but one eventually becomes aware of the 'process' of creation, and what a person should and should not do to help it out. Focus, Falcon. Help yourself. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Falcon, Passionate writing is easy. One need put little thought into it, and it is it's own motivation. It's use is at first as a kick start to productivity, but eventually other avenues must be found. Being emotionally motivated, after a while one's passion dries up. The initial impulse after that is usually to try harder and harder to seek out the emotional experience, to even artificially inflate the passions if needed, to continually seek out the 'high'. Obviously this is misplaced, because it becomes a matter of stronger and stronger stimulus to achieve the desired effect, just like any artificial experience. The honest answer is hard work. Writing is NOT easy for me. Writing for me is a matter of sitting down, facing the cold hard paper, and laboriously filling it up with people and scenes. The payoff comes later, when a well crafted and meanigful work is finished (if I am lucky). Don't get me wrong, it's not quite the opposite of writing passionately - it is often fun, and sometimes one is able to join the intellect and the emotional seat and the words flow out. But it is maintainable, with lasting rewards, even if it is hard work. You have had a taste of what a life of words is like. Now you are being encouraged to develop in fuller, more versatile ways by your dissatisfactions. Listen to them. Keep working at it, and the reward will be far better than a simple tidal rush of emotion. The difference is, it isn't a 'given' motivation - you have to want it. Life has a way of forceing these decisions on us sooner or later. And stop by anytime for a pat on the back. You deserve it. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Good post Master P. I will submit my own dynamic tension - That between spontaneity and system. This is very similar to your self/society tension - is simply a smaller aspect, in fact. But I think it a very important one, because I think it conceptualizes a lot of what goes wrong with society, as opposed to the individual. An interesting question might be, "How can something go wrong with society, when there is no society, other than the collection of individuals?" Master P addressed part of that, but I think there is another aspect worth mentioning, about how society can take over the self. Spontaneity is part discovery, part creation. It is the natural result from connection with the external while in connection to self. By this means, It is the main avenue of personal growth. That is it's value. Obviously, conditions have to be right for spontaneity to occur. As natural as it is, it is very easy in modern society to squash completely. System is also important to society. It is the social/idealistic mechanisms that support society, in the roles and tasks that make society function. Obviously, without system, society would collapse, because no one would 'be on the same page' so to speak. That is system's value. The problem comes in when someone is captured by system. What I mean by 'capture by the system' is that they begin to identify themselves with the system - without connection to the self. This is known by many names; Beaurocracy. The rat race. Workaholism. Dogma. I think it is fine to make use of and support systems, but it is also important to recognise that we are not the systems we participate in. Otherwise, we become systemetized ourselves, of our own volition. The result is the halt of our personal growth - and societies loss of the resulting progression. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.

Wow! Imagine how much poetry she could generate at a Cubs game! Welcome to the fold, my dear. We look forward to many more of your works, and many works together. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know. Edited by: Zool47 at: 9/25/01 4:30:27 am

Thanks. I don't know why I have so much trouble with that. ~Zool~ Elder of Elders, The Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Bard of Terra, Patron Saint of Aspiring Bards. Elder than dirt, more foolish than a jester, able to trip over the smallest logic in a single step. It's... Oh, you know.