Glorious Heights Inverted

/stash

|glorious heights inverted|

Humanity grows as the trees grow;

Solid and wide at the bottom,

And then branching, narrowing, and splintering into knotted blackened spikes at the top.

Drooping,

Until ever-increasing rot trickles downward, spreading slow death, toppling all.

#words

#trees

#decay

#kshawnedgar

K. Shawn Edgar | Less Stettled | Grim Colliser 

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Decapitated Pitchers’ Cinema Radio Hampire

Decapitated Pitchers Presents: Hampire, a short vampire parody


Hampire: A Vampire Neo-Noir Parody from K. Shawn Edgar on Vimeo.

A short movie about a self-indulgent vampire on an angst-filled journey of discovery and heartbreak.

 

In Brief: Why Voting Third-Party is Viable

From my news blog, “The Olympic Record”


In Brief: Why Third-Parties are Viable

 

Oft-Heard Statement: “Don’t vote for a third-party candidate because you’ll waste your vote.”

This tired statement is false, and here’s why.

The reality in the U.S. is that no vote is wasted, unless you cast it based on fear and ignorance. A great example of a fear-based vote can be seen in those voters who fall for the trap of “You have to vote for the lesser of two evils.” The Democratic Party and the Republican Party use this false mantra to stifle support for third parties by always setting up this imagined “polar opposites”, sports analogy-based fight between themselves. They repeat the false logic of “If you don’t want Clinton to win then you have to vote for Trump, or vice versa.

We must break free of this trap. Your vote is your voice. Speak up clearly.

Voting for a third-party based on best representation of your values, needs and ideals serves two main purposes.

First, your independent vote sends a strong message to our one overpowering party duo —D/R— that they do not speak for you, and you will make your own decisions by looking at all the issues and all of the parties for each election.

Second, it helps establish and build credibility for the candidate and party you choose to vote for. Always vote your conscience, because no well researched and honest vote is wasted. All votes help to render a clearer picture of reality.


K. Shawn Edgar | Goth Thinker | Cog Masher | Libtard

Short Story: Out & Back

From my ongoing “Gravity Chains” collection, a short short story of questing and rejuvenation.


Out and Back

You are here † [He did not copy symbol to page for you alone]. And moving forward, your bootprints will replicate themselves. As the music duplicates the beat between our smallest participants [these being but copied and reshuffled segments of the linear us], it follows, then, that the green dotted line from the Crescent trailhead, repeated by way of naturally occurring speakers, will lead us to the final waterfall, and show to us the wrecked Life-ship hidden by its tumbling, sharp white flow.

It’s clear on the map. † See?

Graphically clear, if you know the symbols. Intricate for their size, the map icons show a long, narrow rope bridge at the halfway mark. If an inch is a mile, then that’s about twenty-three miles along the trail to this end of the bridge called Oracle’s String. We make our way there for better or for worse. The oracle will show us how to proceed.

Mile fourteen. Fire in the lungs. Hinterhaven Crags climbed.

On the trail, the soft rain we appreciate for its cooling touch on the backs of our necks, is a harsh pounce of hell hounds for the insects of the wood. Picture drops, the size of your head and upper body.

Malicious, truest friend, what tell your cards?”

Cards? Cards?! You think living flesh, simple stiffened paper cards…?! Symphonic Hammer, you test me with your choice of words. Test me no further! The flesh sayers need oxygen.”

No, Malicious. My words are but motivations. Only a show of pure flippancy would arouse one such as yourself to speak fully and with passion.”

I see. The flesh has spoken softly throughout the day’s exertions, painting muddled landscapes of what might be. At the crossing of the bridge, the Oracle’s String, all will harmonize with the flesh tellers, and we will know what needs knowing.”

And what of Christa Päffgen … will she be there? Will your flesh say what I long to hear?”

At the bridge, Symphonic Hammer. At the bridge, it will become clear.”

Mile twenty-three. Take us out of control, Oracle’s String. Turn us to poet donkeys in clay. Show us how to yield, so we might learn a new dance from our helplessness. String. String. String. Bring!

At this newest outburst of the cards, Symphonic Hammer turns to Malicious with a slow shudder; his shaved face turns pale eggshell slack. The air is water. Breathing it in is like pushing honey through the rear ventilation duct of a 2026 Saturn Helium-NINE. Warm and sticky.

Blurting out, “My father was a lowlands metalsmith, his hands strong and relentless.”

A crystal whip brings blinding light, elevating all senses and all time, till irises close. Bridge ropes and wood slats become crossbeams and turnbuckles, as the Ship of State materializes around them.

And from the highest mast, Christa Päffgen calls down: “Welcome, Symphonic Hammer, welcome and be welcomed always; the kingdom of Azores is reinstalled.”

Tape Backup & Code Red

Lay black, and then align the playheads

You’ve pulled the tabs: one, plastic and rectangular; the other, aluminum alloy and loop shaped. It’s time to begin. Again.

Suck the juice, or is it oil pressed and canned? There’s an arrow on the delivery truck, outside your window. Oil comes from mash, like coconut or olives, right? Must be juice in this tall red can. Tipple without the alcohol. Buzz buzz.

Pressing the black plastic rectangle, loops of tape inside, into its mated slot on the rack of players, you get pumped with memories of late night to early mornings in basement spaces, all quiet and cave-like; other friendly dwellers, faces inches from screens, cutting out the stories from awkwardly shot Super-VHS video, blocks of marble. They’ll cut it freaky, and we’ll dance around the thick square TV’s replaying of us.

Later. Above ground. We’ll be watching these constructed images of ourselves. We’ll be laughing and rethinking our scenes, until well after midnight. It’s the process, and we’ll go back to the basement, to engineering, away from the light and the hordes of dormchow who we only know as ghosts in classrooms.

To improve our performances and angles and lighting and words, we’ll descend the stairs to our safe zone, again and again, surrounded by decades of equipment, like museum pieces, and we’ll click the buttons to frame the moments. It’s our only chance get it and keep it so. The dark, soothing spaces below.

K. Shawn Edgar | Play | Pause | Cut | Rewind

 

Unoccupied Creatures


A Recreational Character Exercise


it's a picture stupid

MegaChain by Woodheavy Brown

Salience is untethered. Pointing, pointing, pointing out from the lashes, all the avenues of regress and narrow slipways of escape. Follow these five unoccupied creatures through their paces, in which games are played for the purpose of fitness. Occupy them as you will, they are but vacant cameras. Vessels to slip into and motivate:

  • Desdemona Tippling
  • Brilliant English
  • Landed Gentry
  • Casandra Awkward

K. Shawn Edgar | Devoid | Lonesome | Foes Bane

Wednesday’s Aether is a Facsimile

Tuesday Afternoon turned Wednesday ongoing into Summer’s Evening

The tents are red tinged green, inside seashells at sunset. When ladies at picnics merge with chaos and cream, every possible perspective looks the same. It’s overlapping snapshots of fingers, truffles, mouths and the smiles in between. All daffodil parasols twirl, as cranberry winds blow in from the fields, a dainty voice heard whispering: “Eat the truffles, sip the Earl Gray; the sun has stopped moving, all day, all day, all day.” The ladies are spun and spin in harmonious concentricity; the grass is green, the sky is blue, the cream is sweet. All curves, ergonomic; the effortless bending of elbows and rotating of wrists compels cocktail glasses to tip, and to connect, with rounded lips and eager mouths, until pomp turns to graveled lullabies inside soft eardrums. Oh, what the laureled gods will do when blind, ignorant faith runs amuck at a party of the privileged.


K. Shawn Edgar | Frosted on the Inside | Single Cogged | Non-Worshipping