Sunday, February 23, 2014
SCIENCE!
This is your weekly report on something sciencey, and this week we've got a new website tromping around the Internets! My brilliant father, the super-safe minded man he is, just set up a site about his work. And it's live, people. LIVE!!
Find yourself low on your microbial information?
Need some energy efficient publications?
GRAPHS?
CHARTS?!?
Is the place for YOU!
I'm not big on promoting, but how proud I am about this outweighs the annoyance I'm grieving you with right now.
LOOK, I WAS SO EXCITED ABOUT MICROBES WHEN I WAS 12 I PAINTED HIM THIS.
LOOK! LOOK WITH YOUR SPECIAL EYES.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Beagle Mix
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Denial
Oh, how the time flies when you're done with classes and vegging in front of computer. That box of cookies was just right there... So easy- too easy to snack on. Who could have stopped themselves? It's not like I had that much. Right? RIGHT?
 |
-HM |
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
The Beast
It's clawing the floors and shaking the ground,
Pushing and threatening to turn this around.
Fleeing from it will bring your defeat,
But give me your hope and you won't be beat.
I am the flame and the fire on tongues,
The taste of the fight thrust from the lungs.
I see past the grit and smoke in the skies,
Caked on the lids that's staining the eyes.
I speak for the truth that breaks from the lips,
Cracking and bursting and gushing in fits.
I tear at the borders that split it apart,
Spewing the lies; destroying the heart.
I carry the fist that whitens the skin,
So wrought with distress. So callous within.
These are the many, so desperate for hope
Clenching their teeth, trying to cope.
I am devout with strength in my soul
Showing the truth and the hurt as a whole
I'm calling for change, not for the beast.
That's all I want, to say in the least.
In memory for those who die for a revolution.
Political science is not my thing, but the fires still burn in places with corruption and without change.
-HM
Pushing and threatening to turn this around.
Fleeing from it will bring your defeat,
But give me your hope and you won't be beat.
I am the flame and the fire on tongues,
The taste of the fight thrust from the lungs.
I see past the grit and smoke in the skies,
Caked on the lids that's staining the eyes.
I speak for the truth that breaks from the lips,
Cracking and bursting and gushing in fits.
I tear at the borders that split it apart,
Spewing the lies; destroying the heart.
I carry the fist that whitens the skin,
So wrought with distress. So callous within.
These are the many, so desperate for hope
Clenching their teeth, trying to cope.
I am devout with strength in my soul
Showing the truth and the hurt as a whole
I'm calling for change, not for the beast.
That's all I want, to say in the least.
In memory for those who die for a revolution.
Political science is not my thing, but the fires still burn in places with corruption and without change.
-HM
Waste of Space
I would rather feel
The Earth on my skin
The hot beating heart
Of iron within
It crushes the skull
The crust of the land
Churns frothing seas
While shifting the sands
I would rather think
That all is alive
Compressing and spinning
The pulp of our lives
Because after all
We can't be alone
Wheeling through space
On a rock we call home
-HM
The Earth on my skin
The hot beating heart
Of iron within
It crushes the skull
The crust of the land
Churns frothing seas
While shifting the sands
I would rather think
That all is alive
Compressing and spinning
The pulp of our lives
Because after all
We can't be alone
Wheeling through space
On a rock we call home
-HM
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
Threads
Interwoven to create diagonal valleys
Just about as wide as the space between papillary ridges...
Down the thigh
The calf and shin
They cross and dance in such tight formation.
Looping araound the ankle.
Serrated edges
Like the hem of a knife
Dangling limp and stringy
The threads
Stripped from their narrow and uniform weave
Hang.
The Precipice of the Shoe is a precarious fall
The loose tangle that keeps an involuntary grip on the taupe, crusty strands holds.
The eldest cords suspend the farthest.
Their toes yanked by the heel of the Shoe.
As some perish
Ripped from the others who were once twined so close...
Shear, bitter sympathy from the threads just above the ankle
At the knee,
Those laugh at the horror, so removed
The Shoe descends upon water.
Dangling wet and stringy.
threads
-HM
Just about as wide as the space between papillary ridges...
Down the thigh
The calf and shin
They cross and dance in such tight formation.
Looping araound the ankle.
Serrated edges
Like the hem of a knife
Dangling limp and stringy
The threads
Stripped from their narrow and uniform weave
Hang.
The Precipice of the Shoe is a precarious fall
The loose tangle that keeps an involuntary grip on the taupe, crusty strands holds.
The eldest cords suspend the farthest.
Their toes yanked by the heel of the Shoe.
As some perish
Ripped from the others who were once twined so close...
Shear, bitter sympathy from the threads just above the ankle
At the knee,
Those laugh at the horror, so removed
The Shoe descends upon water.
Dangling wet and stringy.
threads
-HM
To Wait
The crunch of thinly layered ice over soft, chalky snow. I have to ask myself again why I’ve been standing out here squelching the snow and ice under my feet for the past 30 minutes, if only to help bolster my resolve to keep waiting.
The wind quietly sighs against my cheeks, but in a moment of bipolar terror- screams down the street towards me and rips at my eyelids with its icy teeth. “Whoever placed this lamp pole here was a savior”, I think while trying to squeeze my body behind the foot-wide wind barrier.
A mechanical hum rattles to a stop next to me and I wiggle my fingers towards the smoking exhaust pipe as if to beckon its hot fumes to drift towards me and heat my frozen digits. I have stooped to the point where my wishes are that of a car’s exhaust warming me. This is a new kind of low.
The car clatters away and I half expect the left over wisps of smoke to sublimate to cloudy icicles. My throat complains as I take half of a breath from beneath my cotton mask. The soft material is so tightly woven I can barely get enough air to my lungs. It’s a small price to pay compared to the sharp, cold breath I would take without it.
I blink. Just a quiet street and a flashing light.
Black pavement streaked with brown, compacted ice.
Snow begins to fall again, and still I’m left waiting for the bus.
-HM
The wind quietly sighs against my cheeks, but in a moment of bipolar terror- screams down the street towards me and rips at my eyelids with its icy teeth. “Whoever placed this lamp pole here was a savior”, I think while trying to squeeze my body behind the foot-wide wind barrier.
A mechanical hum rattles to a stop next to me and I wiggle my fingers towards the smoking exhaust pipe as if to beckon its hot fumes to drift towards me and heat my frozen digits. I have stooped to the point where my wishes are that of a car’s exhaust warming me. This is a new kind of low.
The car clatters away and I half expect the left over wisps of smoke to sublimate to cloudy icicles. My throat complains as I take half of a breath from beneath my cotton mask. The soft material is so tightly woven I can barely get enough air to my lungs. It’s a small price to pay compared to the sharp, cold breath I would take without it.
I blink. Just a quiet street and a flashing light.
Black pavement streaked with brown, compacted ice.
Snow begins to fall again, and still I’m left waiting for the bus.
-HM
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Nature Rises
A sweeping city,
Let go by time.
A house with wood,
A dusty shine.
Vines are creeping,
On wood bearing stains,
Tendrils coiling,
Grasping remains.
Linoleum's cracked,
From roots and rough bark.
The tree, embracing,
The house grows dark.
A burst of light,
The roof falls away,
Limbs fully clothed,
Let in the day.
The curtains dappled,
Inside out.
A field of weeds,
Go roundabout.
A spine of forest,
Crumbles the walls.
And with time,
The house falls.
Trees throw shade,
On ruins below.
With desire to live;
Beauty to grow.
A natural return,
To the bountiful place,
Where herbs and the like,
Find plentiful space.
-HM
Tick Tock
I've got the wind of ticking,
Dashing across my skin.
Dodging 'round the goose bumps,
Cackling at my whim.
Running for my life to keep,
Racing on towards death.
Waiting for the time to trip,
Grasping at my breath.
I've got the hand of turning,
Tightening up the slack,
I'm running,
Out of thread,
But I'm never looking back.
-HM
Dashing across my skin.
Dodging 'round the goose bumps,
Cackling at my whim.
Running for my life to keep,
Racing on towards death.
Waiting for the time to trip,
Grasping at my breath.
I've got the hand of turning,
Tightening up the slack,
I'm running,
Out of thread,
But I'm never looking back.
-HM
Earth so far away
Flying at night is such a foreign sensation. It's normal and pleasing to hear the attendant ask us to pay attention to the safety procedures we need to know while on board. There always seems to be a collective restraint not to snicker because they know and we know that we are not going to pay attention. It's like a little party of knowing.
But the lights. Night flying. It's so weird and oddly tangible as we take off. The ground recedes too quickly for my brain. So quickly that the tiny buildings directly below (as we make a U-turn so the right side is falling out the thick window) appear like little toy houses that you could easily pluck from the Earth with your giant, clumsy fingers. The building would moan as its concrete roots were ripped out of the ground; shards of debris falling haphazardly back to where gravity beckons where the Earth opens in a great maw of chunky rock and pipes. But the giant you is oblivious. The ruin you have caused is too small for you to register. Not like you care.
The world is so tiny now...and so much larger. The night lights twinkle in the distance as they fade from your human "naked eye" sight. And the closer ones make the Earth swell and calmly state their diameters of glow, swathing only a small part of the ground for nocturnal people. But there are so many of them.
At first, the shadowy forms of clouds hovering under you freak you out. You think that the lights are trembling on their own; soon to be snuffed out for some reason that scares you for a nanosecond, a millisecond, a second. And then you remember the sun will be met with your side of the Earth again, and everything is alright. But it's just clouds. So it was stupid to think of that in the first place, and you don't think of it again. The thought process was drowned out immediately after that fleeting moment by other more important subjects in your brain. Such as when you will be able to use your "portable electronics" or when you will get to wherever you're going...
Delays to plan for, things to eat, seeing people you love...
And out the window, the lights and all of their miniature halos fade and become softer. There's a smoothness to them now that you are father away. You can't stop looking, especially without good conversation of a companion beside you, and you try to imagine yourself down there. It's hard to though because all you can see are where the lights are and where they are not. So you become detached and you wonder...
"That's not my planet. That's not Earth. Where are all of the woods, the rivers, the lakes?" And then it dawns on you. Where the lights are not, of course. That is where they are. The beauty-marks of the Earth, which are still partially untapped by humanity. Polluted waters and withering trees that can be laughably called "green"; as if these resources were enough to clean our humanly messes anymore.
A wobbly butter-colored line... As if drawn by a young child with an unstable hand, leads to far off destinations.
A road at night.
Lit up by lights.
-HM
But the lights. Night flying. It's so weird and oddly tangible as we take off. The ground recedes too quickly for my brain. So quickly that the tiny buildings directly below (as we make a U-turn so the right side is falling out the thick window) appear like little toy houses that you could easily pluck from the Earth with your giant, clumsy fingers. The building would moan as its concrete roots were ripped out of the ground; shards of debris falling haphazardly back to where gravity beckons where the Earth opens in a great maw of chunky rock and pipes. But the giant you is oblivious. The ruin you have caused is too small for you to register. Not like you care.
The world is so tiny now...and so much larger. The night lights twinkle in the distance as they fade from your human "naked eye" sight. And the closer ones make the Earth swell and calmly state their diameters of glow, swathing only a small part of the ground for nocturnal people. But there are so many of them.
At first, the shadowy forms of clouds hovering under you freak you out. You think that the lights are trembling on their own; soon to be snuffed out for some reason that scares you for a nanosecond, a millisecond, a second. And then you remember the sun will be met with your side of the Earth again, and everything is alright. But it's just clouds. So it was stupid to think of that in the first place, and you don't think of it again. The thought process was drowned out immediately after that fleeting moment by other more important subjects in your brain. Such as when you will be able to use your "portable electronics" or when you will get to wherever you're going...
Delays to plan for, things to eat, seeing people you love...
And out the window, the lights and all of their miniature halos fade and become softer. There's a smoothness to them now that you are father away. You can't stop looking, especially without good conversation of a companion beside you, and you try to imagine yourself down there. It's hard to though because all you can see are where the lights are and where they are not. So you become detached and you wonder...
"That's not my planet. That's not Earth. Where are all of the woods, the rivers, the lakes?" And then it dawns on you. Where the lights are not, of course. That is where they are. The beauty-marks of the Earth, which are still partially untapped by humanity. Polluted waters and withering trees that can be laughably called "green"; as if these resources were enough to clean our humanly messes anymore.
A wobbly butter-colored line... As if drawn by a young child with an unstable hand, leads to far off destinations.
A road at night.
Lit up by lights.
-HM
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