MittBott 2012 vs.The ObamaNation: Let the Contest Begin!

And so it begins!  The primaries are essentially over, the Mittbot has been declared the winner, if not yet in actuality, at least by the media and by the slow march of mathematics.  It doesn't matter whether you're ready for it or not.  The contest is under way, and I predict it will be more intense earlier and longer than ever.

You may not like that.  And it is true that most Americans don't fully focus until the last few weeks.  But the importance of forming early impressions is vital.  The stereotypes and ideas that campaigns are able to instill now will reverberate through the Fall.  Kerry came out way too slow to the nasty lies about his service record, his supposed wishy-washiness, the patrician portrayal of his hobbies such as wind surfing, and Kerry suffered the consequences. McCain was slow in coming out in this period last cycle, thinking the contrast between Hillary and Barack would do his work for him.

Even if you don't think negative ads work, and they disgust you, it's just too bad you're wrong.  It pains me to tell you that they do work.  And you're about to be bombarded.  For myself and my Georgia friends, not so much here, but from the Jacksonville television stations.  The Electoral College insures that competitive democracy in Presidential elections is only blessed on a handful of swing states.

Surveys in the most recent competitive Republican primaries indicated a high level of disgust over negative ads. BUT when asked why they supported one candidate over another, they would quote verbatim from the negative ads as to reasons why they didn't like who they didn't vote for.  So we say we hate them, and then we use them as a basis for our opinions.  Oh, well.

So, like it or not, let the contest begin!  And, with Citizens United unleashing a flood of cash from corporations and the wealthy, you'll need to get your hip waders on.  It's gonna get deep.

Sonnets From the Cycle of Man VI

The earth moves round the sun, as science states
It must, and the moon likewise moves round
    earth.
So the universe, obeying the fates,
Goes on, all in their properly placed berth.
I remember her hair brushed against my lip,
I remember the taste of her coral sea.
That refreshing vintage I'd often sip.
I remember her angel voice, calling me
To her side, my eyes drinking her beauty.
But my love has gone away, I am dearth,
Across this reasoned universe to be
In someone else's properly placed berth.
   And, being a proper creature of reason,
   Know the course to take, place to head
        the gun.

What I Have Learned So Far

My attempts at maintaining a blog slog on.  What have I learned so far?

There is a definite hierarchy as to what is most viewed on this site.  Political articles are number one, by far the most viewed blog posts.  It might be something in their key words that search engines pick up and list higher somehow,  I'm not really sure.  And those without the title Saturday Political Soap Box rank higher.  I will start to list a catchy title first and use the Soap Box Moniker as a secondary title.

Second most viewed are some of the personal posts.  Dog Post!  ranks highest of my personal posts - hard to argue with the the theme of animals.  Again, the higher ranked ones probably have something in the title that search engines catch at a higher listing and intrigue people more.  This Blog Has Not Been Abandoned probably owes its high ranking to those factors.

The least viewed blog posts are the poems and stories.  It does not seem to matter what the title is.  That is quite depressing to me, but I am determined to see it through.  I have very few ideas here as to how to increase traffic to these posts.

I need to use pictures more often.  That is a more time consuming process, and I am not really gifted at the back and forth it takes.  But I am going to redouble my efforts in this regard.

And, of course, as many of you are familiar through Facebook and other sites, it is hard for the computer world to leave well enough alone.  They are constantly changing format, how you get into things, how things are presented and accessed.  Sometimes I wish it would be more routine, but I am doing my best to keep up.  Recently, I wasn't able to post entries and go to my dashboard in Internet Explorer.  I had to download Google Chrome to keep going,

If you have any comments or preferences as to the direction of this blog, please let me know.  I am interested in your opinion.

Thanks,

T.M. Strait

The Incident at the Bog

              Little Cobbie Laysie came by with his gaggle of friends, and started his usual late afternoon pleadings to Dayen.  “Come away from there, ya slow, dirty bugger!  We’re ready for the storgi hunt!  Come on! Nobody does the storgi call like you!”  The boys around Cobbie tried to imitate the baying call of the short, stoat mammal.

                Nobody could make the sound like Dayen, though.  He had made a small wooden tube and could make it produce the storgi wail perfectly, while everyone else could only produce choking, flatulent sounds from it.  It was perhaps this ability that kept Dayen from being teased about his limp.  His right leg was stiff, his knee locking, causing him to be much slower than the rest.  But Dayen’s good nature and gifts with the storgi horn kept their instinctive cruelty at bay.

Dayen turned to his father who was finishing up his work at the blacksmith shop.  “Can I go now, Poppa?  I’ve cleaned up my work, I promise.”

                Grayce Black looked back at him through tired but loving eyes.  “Go on, but be careful.  Stay within yourself, and remember, the wind is changing, winter is fast approaching.”  Stay within yourself was a phrase that Dayen had heard from his father since he could remember.  It was a deep reflection of Grayce’s humble, stoic nature.

                “Thank you, Poppa!”  He gave Grayce a quick hug, grabbed his storgi flute, and hobbled off with the boys of Tarla for what might be the last great storgi hunt of the season.

Before they got out of the village, the girls found them.  “Where are ya goin’, ya pea brain boyos?” said pretty Delena, her blonde hair streaked with red clay.

Ferlin, the biggest oldest boy, the one who seemed to always take the forefront when it came to girls, spoke up for the group.  “We’re going storgi hunting, not that it’s any o’your girly business, Delena.”

“Can we come too?” asked Sweeney, the youngest of the girls.

The boys laughed derisively.  “You’re daft, Delena,” Ferlin said.  “Go back home.  Help your mas prepare the spitfire.  We’re gonna have the hugest roastin’ this boggity town has ever seen.”

Delena was of an age and temperament where she did not want the likes of Ferlin Mast putting her in her place.  “Ya don’t need our help, eh?  Well, la-di-dah!  We’re going storgi hunting too, then.  Can’t trust you nitwits to come with something!”

                “You can’t come with us!” shouted Cobbie.  The other boys huzzahed in support.

                “You can’t stop us!” yelled Ninka, the girls applauding in support.

                “We’ll go out on our own,” said Delena with a sly grin.  “Then we’ll see who the storgi catchers are!”

                Ferlin laughed.  “Ha!  We’re stronger and run faster, and we’ve got Dayen’s Storgi call!  Ya don’t have a prayer!”

                “Aye.  Maybe.  But we do have this.”  She pulled back a towel on a basket that Ninka had been holding.  “Fresh sweetcream rolls.  No storgi could resist them.”

                And neither could most boys.  “In that case, may the best man win!”  Ferlin and each of the boys quickly filched a roll and ran off.  Except for poor Dayen, who just gave the girls a little shrug, and hobbled off after them as best he could.

                Father was right.  The winter would be very soon.  The bite of the wind was very strong.  The first deep snow would be any day now.  Dayen looked out into the woods, searching for the boys.  He found them in the Mary Glen, downing the last of the stolen rolls.  “You’re all going to smell like sweetcream.  When I call the storgi, he’s going to come straight at you,” Dayen teased them.

                Soon enough, however, they were ready for the hunt.  Dayen gave out the call, an eerie wail that pierced through winds, and sent out an irresistible cry for storgis even avers away,

                The boys crouched silently, trying to pick up whatever sound they could.  After a few minutes that seemed to take forever, that heard a crashing through the bush, coming from their right, near the boggy area.  The boys ran quickly to the sound, leaving Dayen to catch up.

                The scene they came across frightened them to the core.  The girls had actually gotten there first, and they came just in time to see a squealing storgi run away, and the awful sight of Ninka slowly sinking in the middle of a bog.  None of the girls could reach her, and Ninka was already waist deep.

                “Grab my hand!” cried out Ferlin.  He laid down into the bog, but he couldn’t reach her, and started to sink himself.  He was pulled out by as many as could grasp his legs.  They frantically looked for a limb or branch that could be extended to her.  She was now chest deep, and was having trouble keeping her arms above the mud.

                Dayen, slower than the rest, finally arrived close enough to see the horrible scene.  “It’s awful, Dayen!” wailed Cobbie to Dayen.  “Ninka’s stumbled into a bog, and we can’t get her out.  She’s gonna die if we don’t do something.”

                Dayen watched in shock as Ninka’s arms and neck disappeared.  What could he do?  What could any of them do?  He felt utterly useless.

                When he saw Ninka’s head sink under, something else took over, some instinct came forth he could not control.  To the amazement of all, Dayen threw himself into the bog, leaping to where Ninka was, and he sank almost instantaneously.

                Everyone’s heart stopped.  No one said a word.  Ten seconds went by, and then they began to hear a low rumbling from underneath the bog.  It accelerated, like the rumble of a building volcano.  A whirlpool began to swirl and form in the center.  Just when the children were ready to turn and run in stark terror, Dayen and Ninka, clasping each other like womb mates, shot out of the center of the whirlpool, as if they were being spit out as indigestible food by a caustic worm.

                Dayen and Ninka lay on the ground outside of the bog, bruised and muddy, but otherwise all right.

                “Dayen, you’re a hero!” said an awed Cobbie.  “How in the world did you do that?”

                Dayen just looked up at Cobbie, dazed. “I-I wish I knew.”

                He sat on his dark throne, rubbing his temples.  The Sorcerer Drym threw open the door, bursting in with as much energy and force as he had ever seen Drym display.

                Drym quickly fell to his knees, his head bowed.  “Lord, please forgive the intrusion.  But the signs have occurred.”

                This was interesting.  “Are you sure?”

                “Yes, Lord.  They are strong and unmistakable.”

                He arose, towering over the kneeling sorcerer.  “Where?”

                “In Tarla, Sire.  The province of Gorst.”

                “All the way out there?”  Gorst was on the other side of the kingdom.  He chuckled to himself.  “Well, brother dear, it looks like you took great efforts to hide him, but it seems like you’ve underestimated my dear Drym, haven’t you?  Put aside the fact that I’ve waited for nine years.  But we won’t blame you for that, will we, Drym?”

                “It is very difficult without a sign, my Lord.”

                “So it must be, Drym.  Just be sure you’re right.”  Drym nodded reassuringly.  “send out the shurpin dragon.  Tell the Gorst administrator he has a life and death mission to commence.  And that the deaths will include his own if he should fail.”

                Although Tarla as a whole seemed ready to celebrate the grandest miracle of it’s existence, Grayce Black did not seem to share in the joy.  “Oh, Dayen, you have no idea what you’ve done.”

                Dayen was very confused.  The town was preparing a huge feast in his honor, and Poppa had physically confined him to his room.  “No, Poppa.  I don’t understand what happened, how I did what I did.  But I do know that Ninka is alive.”

                He sat down on Dayen’s bed, his head in his arms.  “I told you to stay within yourself.  Bad things could happen if you don’t.”

                “I don’t see how saving Ninka could be bad.”

                “Maybe I was naïve.  To think we could go on this way forever.  It was bound to come up sooner or later.  There is so much you don’t know.  Sometimes the responsibility is so hard.  I can’t blame you for doing good.  It’s just now we have to face up to the consequences.”

                “Consequences?  Is someone mad at me?”

                “Not here in Tarla.  But somewhere.”  Grayce stroked Dayen’s cheek.  “You are a most extraordinary boy.  Come, we must prepare to leave.  There may be very little time.”

                “Leave?  Why?”  Dayen was stunned.

                There are those who will notice what you have done, and their reactions will not be like you friends in Tarla.”

                The children rushed to Grayce Black’s door.  The feast was getting underway, and the guest of honor had not yet emerged.  “Come out, Dayen!”  they all said.  “The men rustled three storgis…there’s plenty ‘o’ sweetcreams…all the girls want to kiss you…we’re going to dance!”  All their urgings were jumbled and noisy, creating a cacophony that brought Grayce to the door.

                “I’m sorry to disappoint everyone, but you must give Dayen a chance to recover.  Maybe tomorrow night.”  He tried to shut the door but the children stopped him.

                “I don’t understand, sir,” pleaded Cobbie.  “He was fine an hour ago when I saw him.  He was very excited about the feast.”

                “I know, but I’m his guardian, and I say he’s not up to it.”

                Dayen came to the door carrying a small bag.  “What do you mean, Poppa? I feel fine.”

                “Yes, sir, please, what Dayen did was amazing.  The whole village wants to thank you,” said Ferlin.

                “And a whole ‘nother village, too!” piped in Little Sweeney.

                “What are you talking about, little girl?” asked Grayce, a tinge of fear in his voice.

                “Look!” she said pointing to the hills to the west of the village.  There was a mass of lighted torches, moving quickly towards them.

                “Dayen!  Don’t argue with me!  Come with me NOW!”  He grabbed Dayen by his tunic, and dragged him towards the blacksmith shop.  Grayce took an old sword that Dayen remembered his father always having, but never using.  He handed Dayen a compact, but fierce looking dagger.  He then told Ferlin, “Have the older ones take a sword or weapon if you need it, then go back to your homes to defend them.  Put the younger ones in hiding.”

                “Why?” asked Ferlin.  “What’s going on?”

                “That’s not another village.  That’s the whole Gorstian army.  I don’t have time to explain or argue.  Now go!”

                Ferlin and the older boys prepare to leave.  “Come Delana! Cobbie! Ninka! All of you!  Let us hide you!”

                Ninka took Dayen’s hand.  “No, I’m not leaving Dayen.”

                Grayce could begin to smell the smoke.  “By Osna’s ghost, there’s no time to argue!”  He took Dayen in one arm and Sweeney in the other.  Ninka And Cobbie ran after them as they headed for a mine tunnel at the foot of the hill north of town.  The tunnel was a windy, dark path that all the locals were familiar with that led to the kingdom on the other side, Faustia.

                Dayen could see the village burn as he looked over his father’s shoulder.  He heard the screams of the villagers.  People he had known all his life were suffering and dying.  But why?  For something he had done?  It was too much to bear.

                Grayce moved as quickly as he could, but the fury behind him was growing.  At the entrance to the tunnel he put down Dayen and Sweeny.  He took a lighted torch from the entrance and handed it to Dayen.  He blew out the other entrance torch.  “Go through the tunnel Now!  Take the children if you must, but go now!”

                “But what about you, Poppa?” Dayen whimpered, tears streaking his eyes.  The other children began crying.

                “NO MORE ABOUT ME!  EVER!  Go through to Faustia.  The village of Seatin is on the other side.  Find the noseless hag!  IF YOU LOVE ME, IF YOU LOVE THIS WORLD, GO NOW!”

                “Poppa!”  Grayce shoved Dayen and the children into the tunnel.  He took his sword and lifted it, aiming at one of the wooden pillars that held up the entrance.  “I love you, Dayen Strong.  May your father’s spirit preserve you!  May it preserve us all!”  Dayen heard the sharp whoosh of a flaming arrow.  He saw the flames coming from Grayce’s back, where it had pierced through his tunic.  He groaned loudly, but with the power of Grayce’s will and his well-crafted sword, he was able to swing at the pillar and shift it enough for the crumbling to start.  The children backed further down the tunnel as the entrance started to cave in.

                “Poppa, no!”  The only answer was the dark, and the fear that the cave in would not keep out the invaders forever.  Tears overwhelmed him, but he had the three children to think about.  Their only weapon a small dagger, their only guide a dwindling torch, they headed the only way they could.  Toward Faustia and the unknown.

Sonnets from the Cycle of Man V

I was very young; thou wert very wise.

I knew not; thou knew it all, oh so well!

Adventures to discover th' hidden prize,

Of exotic lands unknown thou didst tell

Beneath corset, breastplate, girdle and gown.

Thou took my hand to uncharted pink isles

Each with a bright red hill topping the town.

Then to soft and drifting desert of styles

I was brought, pure white and shivering at

My touch; further I am led, the fountain

Of life, the giver of love, and at that

I dwell, and my heart becomes a mountain.

   Your tenderness I shall remember

   Always, so pen this love child, dear

      mother.

The Sun Shines Through

Primary tax season is finally over.  I should be elated, but it really doesn't mean a whole lot.  I might not have to work quite so many hours, but it will still be plenty.

I'm kind of a "Let's go out and win the game and then pound some Bud" type of guy.  No, I'm not a very big drinker, but I like to work hard, achieve something, and then take a break.  This is probably a hangover from school.  Study hard, take your finals, and then ease up briefly.  Most of the jobs I have had have not been that way, but it hasn't stopped my internal clock from feeling like it should be that way.

So I am getting up this morning and try to drag myself back to work even though my whole being is screaming BREAK TIME!  There is a good chance they will let us off Friday, which is four hours during the non-primary tax season time of year, as we work nine plus Monday through Thursday and a half day Friday.  Ergo, the glorious four hour Spring Break.

But the sun is shining.  Okay, not quite yet, but it will be soon enough.  Oh, and Alison just told me it will probably rain this afternoon.  But nevertheless, you get my point.  Birds are chirping (well, I guess they are - right now I just hear the blow dryer).  My family is fantastic, I have the basic necessities plus, great church and theatre groups, a President who is smart and pragmatic.  Not having a decent break time seems small potatoes compared to that.

Still, it would be nice to have a few days off.  Oh, well.

Sonnets fron the Cycle of Man IV

Thou hast coldly rejected th' infinite
Love of my tender heart, my overtures
Have been ignored, thy vanity will fit
Ye an eternity, cursing the curs
Ever at thy feet, yapping for one glance,
But what makes this ignored devotion
     worthwhile?
Thy rich beauty put me in mystic trance,
Thy fair skin, thine amber eyes, set to trial
Virtue itself; thy red lips burn bright.
Ah!  No good, I'm in love with coldness itself;
But ne'er fear, I'll set my loneliness aright.
I'll make you live forever, I must confess;
     Your face painted in all its aloof glory.
     Your soul penned telling its entire cold
            story.