Trying to be Clever

Saw this type of thing on another blog and wrote on myself. Figure out the scheme behind how it was written (ignoring all but the first article and paying special attention to the spelling (that last hint is only helpful about half the time)). Enjoy.


A brave child did enter forest grown high, irate, jeering, kreeking, laughing, making Nathan's otherwise passionate quest rather slow and terrorfilled. Under this weathered xenofaun ventured young Zebulun approaching the brave child.

Baby Blessing Tongue Twister



My big brother Brandon’s bride bore a beautiful baby bairn. Baby be brave. Baby be beautiful. Baby be bright. Baby be blessed. Girl grow gorgeous. Girl grow grounded in the word. Girl grow in grace. Girl grow in God.

Emmaline

We here at The Madman's Corner would like to welcome Emmaline Lynn Antkowiak into this world. She arrived this morning at 8:11. She has the lungs of an opera singer and the arms of a power lifter. She has dark curly hair and her father's nose. She weighs eight pounds and six ounces, is twenty-one inches long, and when she opens her eyes the world gets brighter.

Paupers steal me from my home and I end up in bars. I am beaten and crushed on the way. I am poked and prodded, weighed and measured. I am ground, stirred and melted. Men will purchase me but won’t be able to have any of me, their wives will make sure of that. My bride, my perfect complement, drowns, waiting for me in the supermarket. Men stare at her with sad eyes knowing that they will buy her though they have no desire for her. Her red head and slender body have no appeal. Women say they love her, but they always hang her out to dry. Just outside this room, my bride and I wait for you, to celebrate our patron saint.

I stood up at the front of the room in a poorly cut blazer looking out into a crowd of most everyone I knew, with a ring clutched in my sweaty hand shoved in my pocket. At this point Brandon knew it was better not trust me with little things, as I was incredibly talented at breaking or misplacing them. But then again this little ring was not so little at all. This ring was last the big adventure that we Antkowiak brothers would embark on. Bigger than secretly carrying our science teachers small sedan into the field next to the parking lot. Bigger than getting lost in the woods for nine hours and having our mother call the police. Bigger than all the holes we had punched in walls, bigger than any guy we had decked in lacrosse, bigger than any cigars we ever smoked, bigger than any fort that we had ever built. As the eighty-year-old man of God announced that Brandon had become one flesh with the radiant woman standing next to him, Brandon looked at me, and they asked me for the ring. Against all odds I still had it, hidden in the creases of my sweaty palm. They exchanged rings and love and a very long kiss and rode of into the west. Our adventures would continue but never in the same way. She now has his love and his child and his ring, and will forever. But I still have a piece of Brandon that will always stay with me. His mark is stamped six inches below my left knee, hidden under hair: four evenly spaced dots, almost as if I had been stabbed by a fork.

Tyler Antkowiak
Friday, January 22, 2010
Chalcedon Term
294 Words

My eyes widened in shock and so did his. As his gaze jerked back and forth from just below my knee to my startled face, his jaw dropped in amazement, and slowly cranked itself back up into a smirk. I had been sitting on the couch and he was washing dishes. We had been arguing about something of monumental importance. To this day I cannot remember if it was concerning a Platonic verses an Aristotelian understanding of the forms, or if we were revisiting the probable outcome of a fight between the Incredible Hulk and Superman. Whatever we may have been arguing, I clearly had just made a brilliant rhetorical move, which always signaled that the verbal part of the debates had come to an end. He made the first argument in the physical phase of the debate, nonchalantly leaning over the sink and throwing something, with most of the force that a two hundred pound fourteen year old can muster. My eyes widened in shock and so did his. Plato and Clark Kent were forgotten, as he walked over to the couch to get a closer look. At this point, we were both trying to suppress laughs, pain making it considerably easier for me. Once we had both decided that our cousin had not spiked the orange juice, and we really were seeing what we saw, I leaned forward and pulled the fork out of my shin. Dear reader, if you find this story at all unsettling, read no farther. The tales contained in this tome, of frog genocide, dented cars, and dead men on the road, will be far too much for you. But if this sounds like you brand of bubble gum, continue on into the chronicles of the Brothers Antkowiak.

on (not) being "indie"

Firstly of all, did you notice how much I communicated with mere punctuation in the title.

Secondly of all, I am not nor have I ever been considered part of the indie crowd. What is the indie crowd you ask? My outside perspective leads me to believe that to be indie is to: wear tight second-hand clothes, or tight clothes that look second hand. The indie crowd enjoys scarves, music that i haven't heard of in which i cannot always discern a melody, poetry (particularly free verse), romance, pencil art, cigarettes, pencil art about romance and cigarettes, film photography, organics, and awkwardness in movies. (side note: the word awkwardness is like an ugly sibling, it doesn't get any better looking the more you stare at it, but you start to think one day you'll really enjoy hanging out with it) Anyway, this is where i start my tirade against the indie subculture, right? Naa, maybe later. I like them. some of my good friends fit one or more of the criteria for being indie. and I love them for it. But I just can't seem to get on board. First of all, people cringe when they hear the words " Antkowiak" and "skinny jeans" in the same sentence. Secondly scarves really don't do anything to help the appearance of the already existing disparity between the size of my head and the size of my body. As far as the music goes, i just don't really do the whole longing thing. I get angry, i lust, i love, i laugh, and I cry. There's just no room for longing in here. I'm all for romance, but I fell like we would be talking about very different things. Its the same with the pencil drawings. ... this post started as a fun venue for self deprecation, but i think that if i keep going i'll start stepping on toes that i love and care about, so I guess that thats about all for now...


OH! Wait! I remember now. The thing that got me going was: What is the deal with the indie subculture and cigarettes? I like a (high quality, no additive) cigarette as much as the next guy, but honestly, what's going on? Are they sexy? Are they revolutionary? I just don't get it. Thoughts?

I want to blog and have had several thoughts which I ought to have blogged recently but haven’t had the time. Now that I have (made) a little time, I don’t know what to write about. So here are some options. Pick One. (This is really just my way of blogging with no effort)

“Careful Language” or “Eff-ing and Jehovah”
I have had plenty of conversations regarding “swear/curse/dirty/cuss words”. I don’t think they exist. There are words that are powerful, rare, vulgar and hateful. There are situations in life that are powerful, rare, vulgar, hateful, and unavoidable. They need to be addressed. With words. Generally, I can get people onboard. Up unto the infamous “eff-word” Very few can agree that there ought to be a word which alludes to illicit, vulgar sex. I grant that this word would probably fall on the atomic bomb end of my scale of usable words, but I feel like the general aversion to this word is cultural not ideological. (yes I get that a large aspect of language is culture, but this not a post, its an option for a post) Anyway, all this to say. Why is the “eff-word” more sacred (set apart) than God’s name? I’ve heard plenty of friends let slip an LNIV (thats Lord’s Name In Vain) but nary an eff-word in sight. Why? I wouldn’t mind writing more in depth about this.


“A Place to Die”
I’ve written about the friends I’ve made and the people I love at the several nursing homes here in Moscow. I’ve spent little time actually addressing the philosophy behind nursing homes, nor have I attempted to evaluate the value of nursing homes. This ought to be done.


Finally,
“On Polenta”
I’ve been perfecting my Eggs Benedict recipe, using polenta rather than an English muffin, and I’m pleased… very pleased… you’d like to here about this.


I’m kind of messing with you guys. I’m gonna write about whatever I want.

Bucket List

We were assigned to write a one year bucket list, what would we want to do if we knew we were going to die one year from today.

I want to pass all my classes. With only a year left I’m not sure why, but I think it matters.
I want to paint something worth remembering and write something worth publishing.
I want to cook with truffles, and Kobe beef.
I want to finally perfect my orange chicken recipe.
I want to drink twenty-five year old scotch.
I want to drink fifty year old scotch.
I want to drink two hundred year old scotch.
I want to lead my friends who have fallen away back to the faith.
I want to go back to Italy and Greece.
I want to stand on top of that mountain in Delphi, smelling wild sage and thyme, watching the sunrise over the bay of Corinth.
I want to wrestle with my Dad one more time.
I want to see my unborn niece. I want to see her laugh. I want to see her baptized.
I want to see my father’s father who I haven’t spoken to in five years.
I want to see my mother’s father you hasn’t spoken to her in three years.
I want to go to Poland.
I want to see my friends do great things. I want to see them be more bold.
I want to defend somebody with my hands. I want it to come to blows.
I want to die for someone, or something. I don’t want to just fade.
I want my heart to burst in my chest from doing too much than dying having accomplished nothing.
I want to be laid in the ground under a cross and “I want For All The Saints” sang over my grave.

Marie

This will be Marie’s last winter. Her face is crooked. The wind changed and it got stuck that way. Her hands are like tiny bones in a bag, dwarfed as she puts both of hers into one of mine. Her voice comes out of her throat as though it were being dragged over sand-paper. She’s withered since the summer. More leaves have fallen. Her trunk is overcome by its own slight weight. Her limbs are more bent. She used to use her legs. Now she use a nurse and a chair with wheels. She’s all knuckles and creases now. The sun left town today, and I don’t think she’ll be here when he gets back. I won’t see the sun for six months. Marie may see it in weeks. Marie will find summer before I do.