The Rorrim Compendium

the only bad idea is not having one

Beginnings

“Speech is the mirror of the soul.” – Publilius Syrus

My name is Silas and I believe this is the beginning, because beginning at the beginning is the only true place to begin, and so, for all further discourse and delight this quote by Publilius Syrus will act as a catalyst to d(r)ive deeper into seeing–not merely with the eyes on a superficial level, a rudimentary level, a standard level, a functional level, but on a forever inquisitive level with such a thirst that can never be quenched and the investigation pulls on and on, feverishly and desirably looking, interrogating, and speculating on finding some minute sliver of truth that can be held up to the light like a crystal, gleaming and shimmering in all of its perfect flaws, each one (i.e., the flaws) impeccably placed to dazzle outrageously: and it (i.e., the sliver of truth) so seems that it could and that it should, without a doubt, be shared by none other than the souls of the ones in whom this brilliant, magnificent, beautiful glory so amazingly reflects. I think it’s fair to say that mirrors are pretty freaking cool, and while they are mesmerizing, not all discourse on this blog will explicitly or even remotely refer to mirrors; however, hopefully, each post will provide fertile ground for a forest of thought.

Please feel free to enjoy (or be frustrated by) the following .gif

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A Quick ‘Throwback’ to Thinking about David Foster Wallace

There are many, upon many favorite David Foster Wallace quotations floating around; collectively they are a vast ocean of brilliantly beautiful blues and of extreme and uncomfortable exactitude that hits us harder than a crested and now collapsing wave, but still we look out to its rolling expanse. On our little dingy of a ship, Read the rest of this entry »

-:- stupid -:-

it was stupid how we met,
how I said you were dumb
and that your eyes were too dark
          I lied.

 
you tried to flip your hair to mock me,
but it never worked
—and I secretly liked it.
 

if I had any sense I would’ve been scared
to ask you out to see a movie,
a chick-flick.
 

and if you had any sense you would’ve said no.
we sat there, pretending to like the drama,
because we had no idea the other also hated dramas.
 

I was stupid for thinking you wanted
to celebrate three months,
but you had forgotten how fast time flies.
 

you bought me an broken pocketwatch
to try to slow time down.
maybe I’ll fix it this year,
          I say that every year now.
 

I remember when we watched Tv
and how mad I was when you wrote Stupid on my arm.
the marker lasted for three days;
          you once told me they seemed like years to you.
 

it was stupid how two years went by
without much thought. Henry came after the next two.
we saw many cups of coffee and farmers’ markets.
          —you liked the plums best.
 

one winter, I’m not sure which,
we saw live ice sculpting.
you turned to me and said you could do that,
          and I believed you.
 

we spent too many days talking
when we both would’ve like to had read crappy books
with the other in the same room.
 

we should’ve danced more, in the kitchen,
in the hallways, and in the driveway.
we were silly and had terrible tastes in music,
          but we didn’t care.
 

we planted flowers once,
and forgot to care for them and they died.
we didn’t plant flowers again.
 

yesterday I saw your picture on the mantel.
Henry asked when you’re coming home.
he’s six now, Tuesday was his birthday.
          —    you would know, you were good with dates.
 

he and I have talked about calling people stupid,
how it’s powerful and what it means.
later, when he’s older,
— I’ll tell him how intimate stupid really is.
 

how stupid we both were
and how stupid it all was,
and I’ve never been more stupid than I have been
          in the past eight years.

-:- acoustic blues string -:-

plastic in my pinch

and cords in my caress

I grip a heavy neck,

already strung with wire

with a gentle strike of my palm

a somber tone bellows out

the body still humming from my touch

 

the moan of a soul cry,

of a hope hymn,

the bitter of these damned Flats

and sting of something sharp.

I’ll dig my fingertip-bones

pressed raw into steel

 

a morose squeak kills

time now passed in silence

the hum faded with its growing stillness

this language talks to me

as a blues-man’s harp to the devil’s tongue

—all too well

 

the plastic in my pinch

and chords in my caress

makes the train talk

-:- therein he lies, -:- [poem]

in jungles and brush.
he prowls majestically,
need not to feed nor drink;
elusive as any lifetime, hanging
among constellations of breath,
blood, and fear.
looking into his face,
his sanguine passion melts
my corpus soul as wax
to signet a letter.
this totem, this legend,
this Red Dæmon that
transcends us,
I hunt.

hungry, eager sparks rise as phoenix
above the canopy, thirsty for death.
the crimson mist, the amber glow
of the jungle, they’re
beacons.

racing, pulsing, beating, tearing, echoing
like a warped drum in the forsaken valley
of my warrior chest, I breathe.
panting. air rushes out my
nose — more of a challenge than
composure.

and there he is, the Red Dæmon,
he is alone, but shows not loneliness.

I envy his effulgent pride.

breaths — shallow,
heart — racing,
head — pounding

all calms as a child in
his mother’s arms. she sings,
he coos, she sways,
he drifts — off to sleep.

the dæmon’s face resembles my own.
we both smile.
I sit.

I can feel nothing but his warm hands.
eyes closed, I wait.
I watch the swirls on the back of
my eyes dance and ripple, growing and
shrinking, argyle patterns, then
— fade.

I died.

I never knew the power of the
Red Dæmon.
I had become
the creature.

now, therein I lie,
in jungles, and brush.

-:- sleeping catacombs -:-

my bed is a cool metal coffin

not buried quite six feet down

that is dented by a hurricane unwelcomed and

from my own creation.

 

made, it looks clean and gives order to the

room. someplace soft to rest my aching body—

to sleep.

 

my hopeful coffin i climb into, and

die just a little bit every night, is cold.

it wants to reject me, or rather,

i want to reject it.

 

not buried so deep, the burial is improper.

nobody cared to make it pageantric.

nothing elegant, just a place where i lie,

every day.

 

my frigid fumbling fingers pull close the

lid, my casket.

 

i’ll make it to tomorrow, sometime,

somehow, someway, i will rise.

and my unwilling cadaver body

seeks for any touch,

 

the simple gift of warmth,

enough to shed my ash skin,

and leave my rank and musty

breath in the crypt along with my

-:- rope burns -:-

through my mere human hands,

slipping yard after yard,

and each coiled bump

carves and scalds away my life lines.

 

my fingerprints, identity, melted

and fused to the hemp

passed through my shaking grasp.

 

soon the nerves will be burned away,

but until that mercy,

i hold on.

i hold tight, and tremble

under the fiery deathtouch

of my demons.

 

their forked tongues and hiss

mimic their perfidious slander and failed promises.

the molten grasp of reality

leaves in its quake obsidian emotions.

hardened, i can no longer grapple

with my demons,

 

and finally, i see you drift away.

-:- apple pie -:-

the sweet, golden, caramelized scent
takes in my lower lip, glazed by my slick tongue.

a breath, i savor it.
i pretend my vision slips, hazy.

and as the corners of my mouth peak,
i am encompassed in cashmere,

bindings of smoothness and warmth.
my bottom on the floor, my back against the couch,

my toes knead and frolic through the
grizzly pelt rug. i am taken back

by the saucer laden with treasure in my lap. perfection.
crisp crust. flavorful filling. molten morsels—apples.

the same recipe, but never more complete
with crackling yew and cozy vanilla.

such beautiful craft, flaky, golden, smooth,
rich, and luscious. one last teasing whiff.

a violent, passionate moan of delight escapes
past my lips. a tiny little moan,

something to embarrass about, but no. i dig in.
the silver edge slides passably through.

to my starving desire, i feed myself.

but alas, i have waited too long, for
my pie has too soon grown cold.

-:- the last time we were here, -:-

on the dock, we sat—our feet dangling—

the water cold, and my toes, like yours, were wet—

we drifted newspaper boats from ripples we were making—

for years no waves were big enough to upset,

and that’s how i’ll remember those spring days—

we both were curious if the water had warmed enough,

and Boy, your laughter from day one had me crazed—

i’d pout, you’d giggle, then tickle me—i came to expect that stuff—

one day you shoved me off the edge, and soon we were laughing—

you were too embarrassed to tell me you couldn’t swim

much like i couldn’t tell you that i was drowning—

each of my days were turning evermore grim—

i wanted you happy, and so i let you go;

i just can’t believe that was four years ago—

-:- to the painter with dappled hands -:-

and speckled eyes,
your lips a palette
and the tongue a brush.
what are you painting in sleep?
Ruby, Emerald, and Eggshell under your cuticles,
the oils of pretty things,
but the minerals stain your canvas hands.
pigmented cheeks are playfully hued
by your whimsical laughter.
the way you knock your head back
spitting out stray bristles
and flecks of paint, —
you’ll place the clouds too.
when you go home to the oak box,
we’ll be left with loaded brushes
and empty bottles
— both dried and cracking.

Dorothea’s Will in George Eliot’s Middlemarch: Expectations & Compromises

     Like Saint Theresa, Middlemarch’s own Dorothea Brooke bursts with immense will to help others. George Eliot introduces Theresa in the novel’s prelude suggesting that Dorothea represents a Theresa figure. Eliot gives us the provincial town Middlemarch where Dorothea lives, and here, Dorothea develops expectations of married life. In this town, she faces disappointment and the darkness of her husband’s death. After her trials and tribulations, Dorothea learns to save herself through compromise, and her perseverance comes from her saintly will. Read the rest of this entry »

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