Welcome


I am a poet who has both been published and self published. All work on this blog is all copyright Alex Ness. While I make very little money from my work I am technically a professional. Measuring by the hours I've written I am professional. My goal is to share my work with as many people that can read it, as far as the internet may reach with it. I hope if you are moved you will share this blog with others, and perhaps buy my books.

Whatever the result, thank you for viewing this blog. I cannot express how greatly I appreciate the many people, from many places upon the earth, who have visited.

I bid you peace.

Je ne regrette pas la douleur, car il m'a fait plus forte

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copyright notice

Thursday, April 23, 2015

A brief interlude with thoughts, Shakespeare, pics, and comments.

Sometimes I get tired of people not understanding why I try.  Being called TOO sensitive, or TOO dark, or TOO much this or too much that... gets to be too much.  So I thought I'd explain some things, using a wee bit of an example from a great author, about his darkest character, and life.  

God bless you all, enjoy life, or if you have other plans, don't.

The Play Hamlet 

Borrowed from Wikipedia "The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, often shortened to Hamlet (/ˈhæmlɪt/), is a tragedy written by William Shakespeare at an uncertain date between 1599 and 1602. Set in the Kingdom of Denmark, the play dramatises the revenge Prince Hamlet is instructed to enact on his uncle Claudius. Claudius had murdered his own brother, Hamlet's father King Hamlet, and subsequently seized the throne, marrying his deceased brother's widow, Hamlet's mother Gertrude."





HAMLET:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

William Shakespeare


The problem, after all with sleep, is that we might dream.  If we might dream we might aspire to dreams. If we aspire to dreams, we might try and end up failing. If you try you might fail, and if you fail that might lead to pain and sorrow.  No, it is better, isn't it, to never try.  Better to never live, never try, never breathe, or you might experience pain. This world is too hard, and the pain of it leads us to more pain.  Every path leads to pain.  Who wants that?  

I am being sarcastic. But the truth is, life is pain. And with pain being a constant, how do we address going on, in spite of the sorrow and grieving we face.  I am told all the time that I am too dark, and that I am looking at the ass end of life.  But that isn't true.  I think people do too much avoiding of the truth, and I think the truth is hard.  So, others avoid it, some deny it, some face it, and I talk about it, perhaps a lot.  

I think we have to try.  I think we have to be courageous.  And I think that means, in the heart of the storm, when it is dark, perhaps calm but deathly quiet before the final blow, we have to be persistent, and never stop trying, or we will be pulled into a vacuum of failure. I believe that Hamlet is wonderful because while he had much to dwell upon, he was rightly grieved.  How many people pay enough mental and moral attention to the world around us?  I met someone who was an active member in a couple famous environmental activist organizations, and he confessed, while being a bit drunk, that he was in them mostly to "bang hot flannel wearin' chicks".  I said, but you do good works along the way?  He said yeah, I guess.

I am not saying everyone is like that, thank God they are not.  But, I see this world, and think, we could lose everything and there are people who'd think, better luck next time.



But, my question, then, is if we blow this opportunity, if we lose this world, are we going to get another?  I don't think we will.

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?"