RIP – Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett

Short today. As everyone has already heart, both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett passed away yesterday. It is a sad loss to the world.

I have a rendezvous

I happen to love my games, or video games as the older generation calls them. One of my favourites from last year was Gears of war 2, an excellent game. The thing with games this year is that all the really big titles have really big marketing campaigns. One of the best trailers in a long time was called Rendezvous, you can see it here. (Note: it is a large file, try right clicking the link and choose “save as.”)

The poem in the trailer though I actually quite liked, written by Alan Seeger during the first world war, and while not the only great poetry to come from that war you have to wonder what was going through these young mens minds at the time. In modern times poems like this carry this almost heroic imagery, I wonder if perhaps in 100 years time we will be reading poetry from our own conflicts, and if it will evoke the same feelings.

If you followed the link and watched the trailer you will see what I mean, and I should add the narrator’s voice adds a lot of weight to the presentation here, below I have put the whole thing for those who are interested.

Alan Seeger. 1888–1916

“I Have a Rendezvous with Death”

I HAVE a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Slaves

We are all born slaves. Slaves to our parents, Slaves to society. Slaves to convention. Slaves to normality. Slaves to the social masses acceptance of what is.

We are all born slaves…

I am free, was I born free or did I free myself? I don’t know and I doubt a thousand experts could say either way.

To say it like everybody is included is perhaps harsh since I am not the only free man, nor are we small in number, nobody knows who we are, we could be your brother, your neighbour, your boss or your friend.

We were all born slaves.
Except Me.

We all die slaves.
Except Me.