hel·low (ˈhelō/) exclamation. A salutation embodying the vibrant energy found in the color yellow.

26 June 2013

Dewinterizing Trees

Jackets dangle from the knob by the door
Moist and frigid from winter’s grace
Cotton and nylon clothe the people
Skin gone dormant, awaiting the vernal wake
Snow and ice conceal the ground
Grass gone dormant, until the Spring rays
Winter departs and the coats fade away
Back in their closet
Or dripping into the soil
To nourish new life
While the trees look on
Silently burning in sightless heat
Cover does not dissipate
Overheating in their woody coats
Without zippers, buttons, or straps
Caged in winter jackets
That return to no closet
Nor melt away into the roots
Trees living in vernal limbo
And solstice hell
Humanity does not extend its arm
To peel back the incidental prison
To save the floral towers
Trees must be dewinterized
Peel away the bark

12 June 2013

Crafty Penguins

Dear Rain,

            Go away. Come again another day.
            Just make sure to wash the sock afterward.
            I’m sure you’ve never heard that one before. All you kids these days with weird-ass names like Rain and Blue and September Breeze. You should see the shit that’s on my list. Your parents are assholes for naming you after Jesus piss. That’s the sort of shit that gets people on the naughty list. Not like your parents weren’t already on it, sorry for the image. It’s good to hear from you. I’m glad your laptop is virus-free. That malware scanner I gave you last year is doing its job I see. My apologies for all the updates. If you’re good, I’ll send you version 6.0.4. Big bribe, huh?
            Not sure if the “How are you?” in your message was rhetorically courteous, but I’m going to spend the rest of this letter answering that question. Didn’t know you were opening the Pandora’s box, did you? Never know what I’m going stick under your tree.
            Anyway. Lo were the days my work was done up north. I miss it in a way, like an unwanted dosage of commercials between episodes of your favorite sitcoms. After too many years of channel flipping, fast-forwarding live television and snoring through clever insurance ads with talking lizards, you start to miss seeing ads for over-the-counter sleeping drugs. That’s where my profession lies now. Stuck in an ephemeral realm of nostalgia and ill-conceived abandonment for infrastructure. Moving south was a challenging experience for all of us, especially the Mrs.
            My reindeer are long gone, turned into Christmas sausages I suppose, maybe sent to a glue factory, I’m not quite certain, nor do I wish to be. Amazon Marketplace is my new means of delivering gifts. Kids send me their virtual shopping carts now. All I have to do is punch in my credit card number.
            The ice down here is sub-par and there are no colorful lights from the aurora borealis. The snow doesn’t glisten quite the same nor is the work anything close to satisfying. I miss my underpaid midget minions especially. The crafty penguins I have aren’t quite the same. They’re just slaves with white collars and lack the ingenuity of my past workers. Their flippers are annoying, always clapping on the inadequate ice, their beaks are stupid and I don’t respect them, like women. CEO Santa sold his sleigh for a server farm. Damn connection rates are through the roof. I don’t get out much. I don’t get to paint upon the canvas of the sky. Metaphors and shit. We don’t even have a legit pole down here. Where’s a Merry Christmas for the Big Man when the Mrs. can’t even do her routine?
            I’m sorry, Rain. You’ve always been a good boy. No obscenities on your Facebook Timeline. No porn on your Tumblr. Although you’ve been trolling with Hitler jokes on YouTube, I’ll cut you a break because I’ve really enjoyed your Instagram this past month. I apologize your virtual cows for that new farming game came in late, so I’ll send one of the birds to create a bot-net for your Twitter following.
            Hopefully that satisfies all your wishes. If not, CC my executive penguin in the response. The stupid bird will take care of it.
            Happy Holidays, Rain. Hopefully you freeze and turn to snow for the season.

                        The South Pole Santa

08 June 2013

Sleepy Minds Meld Muck

Here are some mucky revelations my mind formulated in the half-conscious state of confusion it has recently been residing in

01 June 2013

Sign You Must, Method No Matter

Weary I am of signing my name for credit card authorizations. Unnecessary I feel for employing cursory handwriting with the single purpose of inscribing my name upon a confirming document. Boycott signing my legal name on paper documents perhaps. Inspired I am by Yoda, for reasons unbeknownst. Realign syntactical structure Yoda does, so realign the process of signing documents I mimic. This is my signature on a pledge to no longer inscribe my signature upon confirmations, validations, agreements, etc. In the words of T. Swift, standard signatures and I are never ever getting back together. Like ever.

Before the days when literacy was expected as commonplace, a large majority of illiterate individuals, upon signing a document, would inscribe their approval via the drawing of a single X in the signature field. While the anonymous X drawn was incredibly vague and looked akin to an X drawn by anyone else, the simple action of pressing pen to paper was seen as a binding statement of agreement. A paper contract could be brought back in times of dispute and the signature X, regardless of literature recognition, would still bind the signer to the agreement.

As literacy has become mainstream in first world nations, a customized signature pattern has developed, taking the notorious X a step further--inscribing one's name in swirling cursory handwriting. However, as increasingly more transactions are occurring online and e-signatures can take precedence, the value of these signatures lessens and focus ties back to the illiterate roots. Considering e-signatures take on a standardized look--via default text font--the actual look of a signature depreciates, regardless of its presence on a screen or paper. When the focus drops from a visual standpoint and back to the true emphasis on the action of signing, one can truly be freed from writing cursory signatures. One can draw a picture, dash a line, or simply scribble a dot.

To emphasize my belief in this slight societal/habit shift, I have adopted a new signature on all documents, receipts, formal agreements, etc. Instead of my cursive name, I now draw a cow. A simple circle and line drawing of a small cow. While this may take slightly longer than drawing a line or scribbling a name, it embodies the full extent of what a signature should be--a personal symbol of bonding. A cow picture can be unique as the slight extra effort to inscribe it makes it more personal and meaningful.

So let cows graze in signature fields.