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Wednesday, May 18, 2005

On Dagobah Pond

A dawn in me, there is. Awake, I am. To be awake is to be alive. Met another who is awake, I have not. How would I look him in the eye? Three feet tall, I am.

Though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in the swamp. Slurp, the muck still does, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. Thrown my walking stick at them, I have, but they do not shut up. They never shut up.

The misty bog I go a-fishing in, the Force is. Drink at it, I do, and see the slimy tentacles of the marsh monster that does not enjoy the taste of droids. Surround and penetrate droids, the Force does not. This is why there are no droid Jedi. Pretty fucked up, that would be.

Three chairs, I have in my hut; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society. But nobody ever visits. So lonely, I am.

Lead lives of quiet desperation, most men do. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. A characteristic of wisdom, it is, not to do desperate things. Desperate things. Things! Echo! Echoooooo!

There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. A close second, swamp-foot is. Some kind of cream, I wish I had.

Every man is the builder of a temple called his body. Sculptors and painters, we all are. Our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Begin to refine a man’s feature, nobleness does. And sexual vitality makes him little and lumpy and green. A joke, that is.

To the swamp, I went, because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. If mean, life proved to be, then try to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, I would. I wanted to see if I could not learn what life had to teach, and not, when I become one with the Force, discover that I had not lived. I also went to hide.

Labor under a mistake, men do. Plowed into the soil for compost, the better part of the man is. They are employed, laying up treasures which wamprat and rust will corrupt and Sith break through and steal. So, give me that lamp, you will. Mine! Mine!

Brian Thompson lives in Louisiana, where he performs comedy and types things. He is also the host and producer of Woozy American Radio, which can be heard for free at He is trying not to eat meat but will probably--ultimately--fail.