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Cinetrav
Hometown: Saint Louis
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I'm a late bloomer, but better late than never, right? I studied filmmaking in college, but got distracted. Now, I'm refocusing my energy on my art. I am devoted to making movies in the Saint Louis area. I also write short fiction and film criticism. I also occasional dabble in drawing, photography, haiku and the rare dipping of my toes in poetry.
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gunsaku -
The good news is that all is not lost.The bad news is that all is not found.
Current mainstream science/religion tends to discount the individual center of consciousness as integral to the processes they profess to champion.
This tendency is analogous to the thermodynamic principle of entropy or inertia.
Including the observer/spirit as an indispensable function of the equation is equivalent to enthalpy or momentum.
Truth is that "dark energy" which has cosmologist so confounded.
Truth is that "occult knowledge" which has theologians so confused.
Truth is that particular combination of letters and words chosen by the muse inspired poet.
Truth is a fresh diaper on your infant daughter.
Truth is often so mundane and subtle it escapes notice.
Truth is sometimes so cosmic and magnificent it is ignored as unattainable.
It is the role of the artist/poet , and to a lesser expectation, the scientist/priest, to strain after this ambient answer to all questions.
In the words of the immortal R.A. Heinlein, "Thou art God."
Seems simple enough to me.
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ManShapedWind -
follow the bardo
on board your own star cruiser
wide cosmic mirror
threatenin g shadows
prepared for grisly wisdom
float inward unbound
social time travel
captain and eight officers
telepathic DISC
hundred handed judge
noticing your ebon floe
wicked talion
starlit wind kiva
between now and another
never dreamed of now
the living novel
and its varied champions
Shout Omega Knight!
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Haikudo -
NEW FRI END
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Nest lined with comments
Experiment al haiku
Write time to hatch eggs
Frozen scene waning
Rain chip ice from soft gray shell
Illustrating spring
Earth stretches awake
New friend chirp warm greeting song
Dance on wings of change
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cinetrav's Featured Art
Trophy of the Captive Hunter
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Arthur wakes up in a cold, damp cell surrounded by the stench of swamp rot and sulfur. There is no light to speak of, but his eyes quickly adjust as they always do. His sight serves him little purpose in a small room such as this. The structure appears to be solid, except for a thick metal door with a barred opening.
Time passes. Arthur paces within the restricted confines of his secluded captivity. He cannot recall the exact events, which have brought him here, only that he last remembers bedding down to rest from his typical routine. His mind circles itself, trying to reconstruct how anyone might have gotten the upper hand on him. His attentiveness to detail and reputation for always being prepared has made him a respectable figure amongst his people.
The penetrating aroma of sulfuric gas causes him to lose focus. Arthur is not accustomed to being in a confused state of mind. This angers him, but he forces himself to focus on the task at hand.
"The bars," Arthur mutters to himself. "The bars are the weak point of this stronghold."
Arth ur carefully inspects the craftsmanship of the door and the bars that guard the window opening. An ingenious smile forms in the corner of his mouth as he prepares to make his escape.
Rubbing his hands together, as if preparing to dead lift a sizable barbell, Arthur calculates his approach and seizes two of the five metal bars, then thrusts his weight and momentum in reverse in an effort to rip the structure open at it's weakest point.
"Oh, damn it to Hell! Fuck!"
Arthur screams in agony and frustration. Not only has he failed to remove the bars that confine him, but also he has left a part of himself, flesh from his hands, seared to the bars at the points of his grasp. Skin that once covered his palms and fingertips now sizzles and shrivels not unlike bacon on a griddle. Arthur furiously inhales, holding his scarred hands out before him.
"How is this," Arthur asks himself?
He is both fearful and curious of what has just transpired. Without making the same mistake twice, Arthur inspects the bars more closely.
"No rust, nor corrosion. No oxidation of any kind," he catalogs to himself.
The bars appear to be old and weathered. Arthur turns to inspect his quarters for some debris or remnants of some kind. Four walls, the floor and ceiling, they are all densely formulated concrete. Arthur places one of his mangled palms flat onto the floor and holds it there. He rises and repeats this action against one of the walls ...More >>
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