Austin's Auspicious Adventures

fishingboatproceeds:

mapsontheweb:

Total meth lab incidents in the United States in 2012 by state

DAMN IT MISSOURI AND TENNESSEE, WE JUST WANT TO BE #1 AT SOMETHING. 

#hoosiers

collegehumor:

I Will Not Sleep Until I Find a Cure for My Insomnia

Makes sense.

I used to work in the cafeteria of the building that put up that sign. They display some funny slogans.

It is not usual, that I ever let anything from my journal see the light of day, but for this one I thought, “why not?”. Enjoy.

Little Imperfections

             When I was young I used to hate it when people bragged. It tugged at me to see people feel so bolstered by their talents. I hated that anyone thought they were above it, or too special for it. Strangely enough, I did not know what it was, but I knew that even I engendered that desire to be above it within myself. I felt a failing in humanity, when it lacked modesty to see how ugly it was. I soon learned to loathe idolizing anyone, and thinking so highly of any great man or society. Every beautiful little thing felt flawed and for me it all felt determinist and predicted and the one thing the model could be built off. So I hated that truth that I determined in myself, because it was a Truth and Truth’s anchor you down to something. Desperately I wanted to be free

            I spent some time alone and realized you never break free. It does not happen and wishing for it to happen becomes absurd and ridiculous, an adventure for fool’s gold. Maybe I am indulging in dramatics, but I really think I learned to live to live by the little imperfections we have. I love the little imperfections. I love everybody not for what they are good, but for what they seem so bad at it. It always makes me smile in spite of myself, and I rarely doing anything despite or in spite of myself.

            It makes everything seem so wonderful and so unintentional again. Because in the great wash that is prediction, in the huge and constant groaning compass of historical and economic study, that always points the northward direction of humanity, constant and steady, I feel like some great disruption sets the pin spinning again. I love it for the disorientation, because how often we force ourselves to be oriented turns every function of life into a fine model of cognitive consciousness. Then our little imperfections, our perfectly small problems set everything so ablaze and all the paper models become singed at the edges. I love it. I love my father for the way he argues without inhibition and embarrasses us, not for how he excels at teaching management and I love him less for working quickly and efficiently when he wants to and more for the flippancy that seems to block him from making “efficient” permanent. I love my mother not for how she cares and how she works endlessly so we can all succeed, but because of how she forgets and how she can seem so suddenly unaware. I love Sam not because of how sharp she can be and how ready she is for every bit of the world, but how she works beneath the godly judgment that worries her so often. I love Britt because of the faith she had in me, and the way she overcame her neurosis for sure, but just as much if not more I love her for all the ways she never broke free of being busy and uncertain. I love Jill not just because she seemed had that marvelous tenacity necessary to force your own path through the world, but because of how she could lose her head in her temper.

            I think it is all marvelous that way. I think I have been blessed in that way, to meet so many unique people who will do so many small and great things in spite of themselves. And I feel proud of it all. I feel proud that I could list so many observations of so many friends. And I feel solace in knowing that my fault could be that I have misread it all, I have written the wrong lines across the blackboard and I never knew anything at all. Without any of that, without all the little imperfections, I cannot help but struggle against it being predetermined. I love life for the flux of it. I want war and I want peace, and I love the revolutions baked in blood just as much as those in velvet. And the inequalities that riddle it all seem to sit there in mockery of the efforts of our grandiose humanity, and I cannot resist laughing with them because they’ve told a damn fine joke. And right now I’ll relish in the laugh, because it may all go hollow by tomorrow. It may all flee when by some happenstance my livelihood leaves me and I seem all shriveled and disheveled because the evil of it hit harder than the good. Any maybe than I won’t smile, maybe then I’ll chant for it to be perfect, but I’ll allow myself the bliss of this momentary foolishness.

~Austin R Ryan

I wrote this poem a while back along with a few other persona poems on the types of folks you would rather not have walking the earth. I am pretty far from Lou in perspective and personality, and I do not have much respect for the rotten elements of humanity. Still, I wrote this because I read so many persona poems that I started to envy their unique ability to create an image. Only, I did not like that they drew pictures of dull grey objects when it felt like people had a persona much more worth connecting to, monstrous or not.

Lou The Lover

The ballerina’s first spin

Caused a crack

To arise from the bubbles

Buried beneath the

Smooth of her joints,

Scraping against each other,

To the surface

For a breath of air

She heard it nice and quite

Clearly too

It was jagged and

Truthful too

But a silent alarm

Sounded beneath the tightly

Formed canvas on the drum

Of her skin

It reminded her

Of the imagined inhaling

Of her noise

That prefaced the suckling

of her tongue

Against a bloody tooth or two.

The noise made

When a man pushes a white stalactite

Into a cave of fleshy pink

It all came from her smile

Perfect and demure

Wide and stylized

Bleached clean to

Look almost squeaky

With its shiny sheen

And the way the news

Kept informing her

Of another rapist

The rapist travelled around town

Quite impressively, really

So that he might find and bind

A woman or man

Made no difference, really

And with his body

Slowly intuit a grind

A deep and slow twist

Of his hip

He liked the way smooth curves

Might try to resist the waves

As they advanced

In a crooked

And corrupted

Ebb and flow

Every day

These people walk by

Without an idea of danger

To linger in their eye

Every day

With a nudge and push

They assert

Themselves

In lines full

To brim just

For a taste

Of something sweet, maybe

A cupcake, a smoothie

A cookie bleeding

smudged chocolate

From the impact of the sun

Everything in this world

Is just so damn stable

And so maybe

He found it alright to flip a table

He wanted the earth to quake

And when he walked at night

Grabbed his prey right

When they shook beneath

All that girth

He piled on top of them:

Mirth

Just because

Like a concerto

Opening into the room

He could feel every force

Move and writhe

As though skin were dirt

And he was Gaia

Giving birth to worms

He never needed

To force his way into beds

He could cause enough

Heads to turn

That his heart should

Not need to burn

But what use was it

When they moaned mildly?

And even when he ran

A soft leathery hand

Across such a smoothly

Formed chest

He found he was

Empty like the rest

And those too

He gave them nothing

Unforgettable

Or entirely new

No matter what,

Afterwards,

They might mew

But when he seized

And they shoved

When he heard them

Muffle and shuffle

When he slid his hand across

The wide map of their

Soft body

To feel the dips, the valleys

The crested hills

He knew he made something,

Stirred a fire somewhere

Within them

He made them

So full of burning,

Fire for escape

Rage, hate, fear

Maybe even arousal

Love, for those weird

Ones that resisted less,

So he wondered

How they expected him

To loathe himself

No, the workers

In the factories

The buzzers

In the office spaces

Would loathe themselves

For their every repression

And harmful digression

But he shook things

And the worst harm he brought

Were a few minds

Shattered open like egg shells

Just more statistics

And in some way

He was better off than

The news anchors and high up

Law officers, because

At least he knew those numbers

He knew them sometimes

By the bite mark he left

When breaking the flesh of their shoulder

Or the laceration

That ran straight and

Smoother than a river

Marked by the crawl

Of his fingers

He knew those numbers

Better than every

Single statistician

And search engine

In town

Every time he

Escapaded to a new

Menagerie of derangery

He liked to spend himself

Hot and heavily

In the seeping and weeping

Artery of this piece of love

He clung himself to

Yes, he knew that

One day, they’d unzip

Those double helixes of his

And the mystery would unravel

Like a chromosome

Cleaving itself in two

To create I and you

He did not mind though

They would uncover him

One day

In fact

He looked forward

To the moment

The door swung open

And they’d find him

In his chair

With a smile

Blood in a cool pile

Smoking steel in a firm grip

And a hole

So deep and so wide,

Were it he were alive,

He might just want to

Struggle inside

~Austin R Ryan

I found poetry

in form of a flighty fay

A light and pretty fairy

viewing the land

with eyes open and wary

I saw poetry

in the struggles

of seeking and being sought

heard it scrape echoes

out the bottom of a bottle of pills,

A cold wind trying hard to give me chills

The grimmest of the grimdark

An apocalyptic apothecary

A regular coal mine canary

bleating out beats beneath

feathers colored too crassly

and a bent beak

jaundiced just right

Poetry and I met

At a gallant gala

Where I saw it

Step to strict form

It spoke in fine tune

for the lover and loon

before it danced the

Sestina with idling Italians

and sung a blues sonnet

to rowdy revolutionaries

and pouting prophets

Poetry invited me

to a snappy café.

We talked in stilted

flow and rhythm

trying terribly to rhyme

I cornered poetry

(Just when it got big)

for an autograph.

It just threw me a mirror

and told me to write

a god damn book

Poetry and I

had a falling out,

when I wanted ideology

and it trended to the miscarriages

of so sharp a reality

I kneeled at Poetry’s deathbed

and heard it spout gibberish

Let it mouth references

to Shakespeare’s obscurities

Before its cold bulging veins

pumped bursting pluralities

that would prove too much

for a never healthy heart

Like Poetry,

I resolved to speak

until I would draw a fine line

and let words

From my mind and mouth

Like blood

From my body and health

~Austin R Ryan

fororchestra:

hexwarrior:

dreamingdusk:

some-dude-called-jab:

lunahorizon:

So I mixed the original Gangnam Style with the Orchestral version and

This is fucking amazing.

Somebody post a download link. NOW.

TUMTASTER BABY <3

YES YES YES YES YES

So apparently this has made the rounds on Tumblr. My orchestra cover mashed with the original.

(via glasscase-ofemotion)

The creeping shadows

Once loomed over a great and mysterious landscape

Massive mountains of stairways creaked out their woes

And the world itself exhaled a cold draft on the nape of your neck

An infinite abyss of the unknown

Clawed out of the closet

Preserved by a great defender, stuffed and sown

Now all that is near

Is the Yeast that rises

The sobering taste of fear

And the bitter, never-ending compromises

The only mystery left

Is buried deep into the human solar system

Un-decoded, lost in the cerebral fields.

Deep in the mines of the untold, unseen subconscious

Lying somewhere between the jurisdiction of man and deity

No one ever reads the introduction

Constantly waiting for the main production

Who knows who remembers life’s initial construction?

The young line up fervent and fine for society’s induction

The dreams are bottled up by reality! Such suction!

Shooting for the moon to learn you’re stuck with earthly dysfunction

Things big and small can be explained by most and all

The building arrogance only leads to speculation about the coming fall

It is weird to know

how underwhelming it is

to finally stand tall

It is odd to see fantasy fail

How bizarre, seeing dragons die off!

It all seemed to go without a whimper

Without even a cough

~Austin R Ryan

sirbealke:

Hey Austin.  This is for you.

coolpup:

HE CLIMNED THIS WHOLE MONTAIN :’)

there is so much magic in this photo. I wanna cry.

collecting stamps from nowhere: ceasesilence: tal9000: jawdust: hipstersbleedroses: Open question to...

ceasesilence:

tal9000:

jawdust:

hipstersbleedroses:

Open question to the Internet: Why is it apparently mysogynistic of men to get excited about the Olympics women’s beach volleyball because there’s pretty ladies jumping about in tight sport bikinis, when half of the…

or ya know, you could avoid making a “perverse simplification” yourself and say “It is alright and natural for people of the opposite gender to be attracted to one another and watch sports more for the value of that attraction than the value of the sport.”

Or instead you could go on a rant that implicity (and I can pick apart that paragraph and point to its implications) states that women have the right to sexualize sportsmen but men do not have the right to sexualize sportswomen because of societal issues that were created long before any of us typing were born. You can also say that when a man looks at things he does it only through a lense molded by oppression and sexual violence and attempt to make every single time a man looks at anything sexually into a case of unspoken rape. Though, when you wonder why a lot of people get a bad impression of “feminists” please remember it is because of overly confrontational stuff that condescendingly generalizes widespread opinion, and not because people want to subjugate women. In fact most people in America are feminists, and want women to be equal and safe. Most people are feminists by the true definition of the word. Plenty of people just hate to admit it and hate to even touch the topic because they do not want to be tied to these types of arguments.

I mean, I get it that men sexualizing women has led to some bad stuff, and the post that started this was pretty rudely phrased, but just because men have been unfair to women does not mean that we should be rude to men. If you really think that a man watching a women’s voleyball game because the women look nice is sinister, than you will be one of the things that discredits feminism. And if you really want to make the point that there are gender geared double standards in sports, you can do that politely just by saying, “it is fine for any gender to watch a sport because the athletes are attractive. However, it should be noted that women’s sports should not be devalued to being solely viewed for attraction and we as a society should be careful to view women’s sports with the respect we view men’s sport, and try to highlight athletes for skill and character. History teaches us that we should be cautious when sexualizing things because it can lead to derisive results. We also should not simplify the issue to ignore withstanding issues caused by the sexualization of sports” instead of insinuating that a dude can’t sexualize a female voleyball player on merit of his gender and his society, because that is unfair, and unfair is not the idea of feminism.

But of course, you probably get a lot more reblogs on Tumblr when you create a slogan, as opposed to when you create a legitimate debate.

ohaielly:

FUCK. THAT.

THE POOP. THE POOP IS ALL OVER MY PANTS.

(via glasscase-ofemotion)