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Halloo! When I found out I could go to med school with a Humanities degree with an Ethnomusicology emphasis, I almost peed myself. Here's to me holding it in.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

HUM 201 Journal Entry 8

Divine Comedy

In the Celestial realm, in the presence of the Three Rings of Great Light,
I enjoyed my conference with the Divine.
The Love that held me there knew no time; no end was in sight.
Suddenly my vision darkened and the heavens ripped at the spine
            I whirled down, down, down into blackness
            The skin of my face, once bathed in warmth, was bathed in thick, icy grime.
My fine raiment was torn; the bright silk lost its gladness.
            I swam in a river of corporeal pain.
            “From whence,” screamed I, “comes this madness!”
The hourglass slowed as it ran out of grain.
            I could stand, I could see in the dim.
            A man stood in front of me, holding an axe – said he, “I’m Kurt Cobain.”
He had shaggy hair, a lazy beard, and sad eyes brimming with grim.
            Lost to eloquence, I said, “Hallo, Kurt.”
            My briefness was not lost on him.
“I suppose you wonder why the Hell you’re here, and that fall must have hurt.
            Well, I will tell you, dear old friend.
            We have invented new sins with which to flirt
 And you have been brought, the poet eternal, to write them.
            I was told you don’t notice time, not while you’re Up There
            Well, I have to tell you, the world’s become quite a gem.
We can fly. Music plays itself. Even our servants eat with flair.
            Our chariots haven’t needed horses for years.
            We call to our friends twenty leagues away, and in moments they’re here.
Utopia? No. In fact, the truth is the worst of your fears.
            We have ten thousand things that waste time, precious time.
            We have Call of Duty, Socom, not least of all Gears
Of War and computer solitaire. Yes, time wasting is prime.
            And you are here to write these damned souls’ woes
            So the people above might stop pointlessly losing their hard-earned dime.”
A rugged stench then filled my nose,
            Something like a Parisian street at the height of the summer.
            As it is said, “a rose is a rose,”
This rose smelled like a blasphemer,
            The stale smell of denizens too busy to bathe.
            Running live versions, the never-ending gamer
Was forced to live out the fantasy. My heart wrenched, turned as if on a lathe.
            They ran back and forth, ever dying, ever living
            Wounds ever growing, no bandage or swathe
Could stop the blood from flowing.
            While some were men of war, missiles flying overhead
            Others played solitaire with cards with razor sharp edges, gashes ever growing.
When the game was over, king down to ace, the player wished he were dead,
            But the stack just reloaded and a new game began.
            Some farmed in the villa, with their own homegrown food they were fed,
And fed, and fed, and fed. And just when they thought there was no room to cram
            More food down their gullets, a giant finger Poked down their meal
            And compacted the stuff into something the size of their attention span
What horrors! What terrible fates! What did they do to seal
            This end upon themselves? I turned to my guide,
            “Why, Brother Cobain, why? I begin to feel
My constitution weakening, watching these poor souls writhe in such pain,” I cried.
            “They are simply doing in death what they wished to do in life
Thousands of hours they spent hunched over silver boxes while the world passed them by.
While the world passed them by they pretended, their lives rife
            With discontent, ennui, boredom – what a world they missed!
            ‘Here we are now, entertain us’ cuts me, my own lyric is sharper than a knife.
How right I was – a whole generation, only ever virtually kissed!
            1’s and 0’s are no substitution for flesh and blood!
            Oh, what a pitiable, digital, cold cyber-tryst!
And now! Living the games they used to avoid living! I could wish for a flood
            Like the one that came to Noah of old
            To come and wash away all this silicone mud!”
“They chose this?” said I. “It must be true, I suppose.
            Every one in hell is justly put behind bars
            Of their own making. They must wear their own clothes.
Oh, my lament! Oh, fair ones so young! Oh, what new, miserable scars!
            I will write all I have seen, I promise – I won’t give it second thought, if
            God! please, I beg it, You bring me out of this place and back to You in the stars.”


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