Little Rocket in the Sky

Hey, Boy,
Do-do-do
Hey, Boy,
When we first met,
on the 31st,
and it was Hallowe'en
You know what I mean.
And I was the one dressed up as a rocket
that night
Don't ask me why!

You came over to me, and said tell me,
if you're alone tonight, can I be by your side?
Hey, baby, aren't we having fun?
Little Rocket in the sky?

I'm a Rocket in the sky.
Don't ask me why.

Benassi Brothers feat. Dhany

-- `phfina analysis:

So have you seen that song's vid? With Dhany walking across the stage, the imaginary universe in a patent leather outfit that would make the CatWoman jealous and leave Batman standing there, totally enchanted, totally befuddled like the dumb fu- (uh, PG rating, `phfina) fool that he is? That is, since Michael Keaton played Batman when Batman had at least a one-dimensional character to play, given the helming by Tim Burton (who totally missed the boat on Abe Lincoln and Vampires and how could you screw that up, Tim, but so it goes).

Anyway, she walks across this orange creamiscle world in her black leather get-up and leaves trails of herself across the backdrop, marking it with her.

*sigh*

That's not the image that captures me. (yes, it is, but so what), the image is the lyrics: a rocket, in the sky.

*sigh* (again)

That's me, a little rocket in the sky!

Why do I like the Haloz so much? Why does anybody?

Well, I suppose I could punt there, and say each has a different reason, and that would so totally explain that it outsold every movie in the world going toe-to-toe.

So I'll just give my reason, and let the corporate wonks chuckle greedily as they rake in more profits from other little rockets in the sky.

See, there's this thing, when teams are competing against each other online called a banshee, it's an alien aircraft, a one-seater, very effective against ground forces. It swoops, it bombs and then rockets away, untouched, untouchable. A little rocket in the sky.

When I get in the banshee ...

Well, when I get in the banshee, our team wins; but it's the real test, that we don't have anymore: a test of self against all others, and the results are immediate and obvious: you win, you lose.

And you fly.

In the banshee, I'm invincible. I'm a little hawk, swooping down from my lofty perch, raining down death and destruction, and shrieking away, my keening victory cry the only thing you hear from beyond the grave I just splattered you into.

Why do I play the Haloz?

Why do I write fan fiction?

No reason, and every reason. It, they, are something I can do well, something others recognize and admire in me, and something I derive pleasure, a sense of excellence and belonging.

Putting on the wings of a banshee, I find myself centered, grounded, and ... free.

And nothing can stop me from getting to my beautiful bird and soaring into the heavens. One time, there were three elite warriors guarding the banshee as it spawned, and I rolled right into the midst of them: me, and Bessy, my rocket launcher. I took out two of them with two rocket rounds, and the splash damage weakened the third enough that a few shots from my needle rifle finished him off.

Three elites between me and my banshee? No. Not today.

And nothing's more frustrating that me soaring along in the heavens, then BAM! a rocket takes me out, or ZAP some plasma disables and grounds me, leaving me an easy target for being boarded and forcibly ejected. ARRG! I'm like: Hey! My Banshee!

And, I can do this, online, with my friends, and we can measure our worth against a team of other friends. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, and we come out of the game a team of friends, still.

Now, you may say, "Hey, `phfina, you're a girl, all this talk of Video games and swooping and swerving in a combat aircraft sounds rather, well, you know: mannish!"

Yeah, maybe so, but I have one little interesting factoid for ya.

You know who are the deadliest fighter pilots in the world?

Teenaged boyz, yes (guess who flew the first fighter jets for the Nazis?)

But, now: girls. Specifically, young women, in the Air Force, be it for Israel or the U.S.A. or Sweden (Saab fighter jets, so smexy!) Yep, in modern air combat, a girl fighter pilot of similar skill can beat a boy fighter pilot.

Why?

Well, a girl's smaller frame and lower weight for the same height means she can withstand higher G's than that same boy can before passing out. She turns, he turns, she turns harder, he turns harder. He blacks out and crashes into a mountain, or he levels off, and she gets behind him, shoots, and destroys him and his fighter air craft.

`phfina in a banshee: mannish? or just right?

But also, so what? I have mad skilz in the banshee. Okay, and that's a given. So we win this game.

What about the next game, and the next?

What if you're closer to the banshee and three bks are coming to kill you and I'm across the map?

That's why I believe in: the person closest picks it up.

All the time I see bks betraying for sniper rifle, or sword, or for banshee. I've been betrayed quite a bit for these power weapons, and then, I watch the betrayer charge in and die, instead of using the weapon wisely and getting kill after kill after spree.

Okay.

So, you're closer. You pick it up, or you say, '`phfina, take it.' Okay.

I probably won't take it, if we can afford it. Why? You suck at banshee. Okay: learn on the job. You'll suck this time, and the next time, and the next.

But eventually you'll get better, and then we'll have two good banshee flyers on our team. So you fly banshee, and I'll snipe. And we win, even better than before.

When you're playing a team game, with your team, your team wins better and better the better each person is, and a person gets better by being bad at something at first, and then learning from first-hand experience by sucking at it, not doing sucky things anymore, and then getting skilled.

It's only a game.

But all this: teamwork, coordination, learning from past mistakes, sharing, all this is directly applicable to real life. You get better in game, because you try harder ('try hard': I'd rather be called a 'try hard' then a 'fail weak.' ... think about it), make mistakes, pick yourself up, correct, learn, apply, win, grow.

Yeah. That.

Hevl Iz Havolim

Oy, Hevl iz havolim,
Oy, Hevl iz havolim,

One's whole life is misery,
Another lives large...
Oy, vanity is vanities
Oy, vanity is vanities
A dream is the world
And the world runs on money

— `phfina's commentary:

Who's my favorite author these days? (and for all time?)

I would have to say, judging what comes up on my phone, Qoheleth.

I mean, for fuck's sake! Finally!

I mean: really. There's somebody who really gets it (or 'got it,' he's way dead by now). He looked at the whole world, from the very tip top ('King of Jerusalem' when Jerusalem was where it was at and happening in the whole world), and saw it, saw it for what it really was.

He saw me. He saw you. And he looked in the mirror and saw himself.

Nobody does that. Nobody.

He did.

He saw it all, and said: 'Oy, hevl iz havolim.'

I mean, all of it. All of it.

Read his words, all of them, and bit by bit, you'll start to get it. You'll see people working. You'll see yourself working...

And to what end? To what purpose? For whom?

You toil from sunrise to sunset, only to do the same thing tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

And what does it get you? More toil. And a scolding from your boss for not meeting the impossible deadlines he sets for you as you see him take a 'comp-time' day off, but you? No: you have to do the books, because who else would?

Or you succeed. And then what? You die and somebody else languishes with the wealth you accumulated with your hard work, wasting it away on pleasure until it's all gone.

So, what then? 'Fuck it all, and why don't we get drunk, and screw?'

So, you'll see yourself drinking, partying it up with your friends, getting blasted, getting wasted, and for what? For happiness? Yeah, right: if happiness is what I see in bars, or afterwards, the morning afterwards waking up with a complete stranger, or worse, waking up alone with your old friend, Mr. Hangover, soon to be follow by Ms. Porcelain Goddess.

You'll see yourself sneaking off, alone, in private, to do the things you hope nobody else will know what you're doing.

And you know it's a lie, you know, what you're doing, hiding from everyone, is plain for all to see, and you know why you're hiding what you're doing.

Because it's evil. And wretched.

Welcome to the world, loser.

That's what you are, and you know it, and your defensiveness at me calling you a loser? That only proves it, buster.

Because no matter how much you think you're faking out your friends and family, there's still that one person you lie to all the time, but, deep down, she knows the truth, and you would, too, if you had the guts to look her in the eye and call what you see when you look in her eyes in the mirror.

Qoheleth did. And he wrote it down in his journal, for us to read, 2400 years later.

2400 years later, and his words still apply today.

So, what do you do, given that everything, everything, is empty and meaningless.

Nope, nope: that one thing you think is so important. Nope. It's not.

Really, it's not. And you know it. Fight me on it, because it's important to you that something, even this one thing (like, what, again? I'd love to hear your altrustic bullshit) (Oops, I meant your altrustic 'cause' ... yeah, whatevs), that being gay-rights or human-rights or digging a well or feeding the poor or making money or looking good or not looking bad.

That's what it all descends to: you want to look good, and, well: above all else, not look bad.

To whom? To what end?

So that when you die, they can say about you: well, she looked good, and she didn't look bad.

Think about it. The end. Think about it.

Because 2400 years from now, your drive to make it to work on time and pretend to look like you know what your doing, by hiding, or by appearing smart, or by bullying, ....

2400 years from now they are not going to think two seconds about what you worked so hard, wasting your entire day, your entire life over.

They won't even know your name.

They won't even care.

Even Qoheleth, poor Qoheleth. I mean, it's taken to this last century before even the best and brightest philosophers have even begun to touch on this point. And they are still getting it only partially right. I mean, even Qoheleth knew that it was all pointless, and he knew that it was all pointless was ... pointless.

You don't know that. If you did, you wouldn't be 'yeah, right, whatevs,' because that's passive aggression, and you wouldn't be like 'yeah, but `phfina, ....'

There is no 'yeah, but...' there's no exceptions to the clause, even the clause itself, and until you get all the way down to the bottom of the pyramid of turtles and find the big, fat elephant ... I mean 'emptiness' there ('there' being 'nowhere' and 'everywhere') then you haven't even started to grasp how completely idiotic you are trying to argue with me from reason that there meaning in this meaningless thing, this meaningless everything.

This meaningless nothing.

Go to the very bottom of the beer bottle, and see the emptiness there.

That's you.

Until you accept that ...

... Until you accept that, you are one very sad fuck. Trying to see meaning, hope, redemption, reason in anything and everything you hold onto so tightly to.

So, let go?

Let go of what? You're still not getting it. You're holding onto nothing!

Get it?

No, you don't. And don't try. You know why? Because 'trying' is adding your layer, your view, your context over all the excuses you've made to make yourself all nice, safe and secure in a world that has none of those things.

You're got a huge pile of shit on the plate in front of you (literally! you know what animal feed is composed of? Look it the fuck up) and instead of calling shit, shit, you paste all your reasonableness over it, like icing, and now you have a shit cupcake.

'But it's a cupcake now,' you reason to yourself as you heartily dig in, every single day, for the rest of your life, living this lie you call 'life' and 'that's how it is.'

'I can't tell my mom I'm gay,'

'I'm on my way to work now at 6:15 am'

'I wonder if he likes me...'

'God, I need that drink...'

You don't even stop, anymore, to ask yourself 'why?' You've graduated from being a rebellious teenager. You're grown up now (context), you have responsibilities (context), and ... and all that shit you tell yourself all the time, and you don't even buy it, you just do it because you have to do it, but why? you can't even dare to ask yourself why, because if you dare ...

... *gasp* if you dare to ask yourself why, you might actually come up with the real reason.

The real reason being, there is no sanctuary!

Yup, you're doing it all, sweetheart, because, just because, ogod, you tell yourself you have to, and for no other reason than that.

None.

Really. We had a doctor in group, and she saved a ten-year-old girl's life.

So, but, good, great, whatever, so that girl could live a few more years and do what?

What is it with us and 'doing'? We all need an occupation, but for what?

Sweetie, we all need ... need... to be doing something, anything, saving a ten-year-old girl's life, because ....

... because we have to fill the emptiness with something.

Otherwise we'd be faced with emptiness. Which would mean we would have to face it.

Or do what I do.

Run from it, with all my might.

And then face it again, the next morning, every morning, and look into her eyes, and see absolutely nothing there.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing in my eyes looking back at me.

You're still not getting it.

It's okay. I have to tell myself that, because after all, it doesn't matter whether you get it or not ... in the end.

Why does it matter to me then?

Or, put another way, when I was a little girl, growing up in a nowhere town in Connecticut, I would always wait for the part of the homily our Monsignor gave when he said, 'So, then what are we to do?' or as the Apostle Paul says 'So, then, how shall we live?'

Or as Qoheleth says, 'What, then, are we to do? Eat, drink, and be satisfied with the work of our hands.'

It's all pointless. So be happy.

That's it.

No, really: that's all, so if you're not happy doing your pointless thing, why bother?

But what's happy?

Hm, there's the rub, but then, that doesn't matter. Happy is whatever you want it to be.

Really.

So if you're happy sitting at work, doing nothing, stealing a pad of paper and some pens, well, then, have at it.

But, you really, really, really have to look. 'Have to' as in 'have to.'

Because, really, you can see that you're not happy.

Because why? Because you choose you and your life.

So happiness, `phfina, is my choice?

Yuppers.

So, it's all pointless, and the only meaning in it all is what you assign it.

And, well, for most people, they need a point, you know those kinds of people I'm talking about: always having a fucking point to their fucking 'oh, I was just asking a question!' conversations? Those people who are always carrying a chip on their shoulders the size of what I hear the WTC used to be.

You know: you.

So, ... (ooh, did I hit a nerve? So sorry. No, I'm not. *snicker* I'm having FUN!) ... if you have to have a point, well, then, have a fucking point.

Make a game of it.

Wake up in the morning, and, if you're honest, say, 'what-fucking-ever, it's all pointless,' and if you're not, (really) put on a (chipper) smile, and say, 'today, the point is ...'

And make one up.

And it really doesn't matter what it is, just make one up, and make a game of it.

'Today the point is to make seven people smile,' and then make seven people smile, and check back with yourself at the end of the day, and if you made seven people smile, then Yay! you won, and do your happy dance.

(I actually do do a happy dance. You should see it. Guaranteed to make you smile ... or snort coca-cola up your nose, and that would make me smile, ... either way, I win)

And if you didn't win your game, then Yay! you lost, and do your happy dance.

No really, remember? It doesn't matter. It's all a game. All of it, and you choose to play and and you choose how to be while you're playing it.

'The point today is to sleep in somebody's arms tonight.'

Remember to do your happy dance. And when you explain why to her, she'll either smile, or ... slap you in the face, which will make me smile.

Either way, I win.

Yup, I set myself up to win my games.

I'm hard enough on myself already, and for no (good) reason, too. So I deserve to win some, just because and for the smile.

So, cool, once you get that, that it's all a game, and it's a game you made up that you're playing, ...

Then that's the first step.

To what? Nothing, of course.

Wanna get better at it?

I walked home tonight, as I did every night.

You know, I choose to exist.

Right now.

Right now.

And right now.

Every single step is a step I made, because I chose it.

The steps I knew I was choosing?

Those were some incredible steps.

You're not even aware you're alive, are you?

You're not even aware you're taking this very breath, right now, I bet.

(My game. I just won. And when you do become aware of the breath you're breathing? When you become aware of yourself in your body at this very instant? Now that's a bigger game for me that I'm winning.)

Every second of every day is a choice you are making, right now, to be alive, and, in being alive, you're making choices, a multitude of them, to make a difference, to be the difference, or to go with the flow.

It's really comfy to go with the flow.

Particularly when you choose to pretend to not be aware that is what exactly what you are doing.

I know.

I know it a lot.

It's called 'work' because, up to now, it's what I choose to make what 'work' is.

But, you, me, when we become aware of being alive, at the very instant, and making a choice, this very instant.

The world becomes something else entirely.

It's called scarcity verses abundance.

People who chose to limit themselves, to live in the world they created within their safe little boundaries live in the world of me-verses-you, in the world of either-or, in the world of causality, 'if I do this, then she'll think that.'

Maya, illusion.

People who choose to be aware, and to be aware of choosing, ...

Well, then, they have everything, and more. Because why? Because they chose it, and they damn well know it.

And that, too, is maya.

So choose your illusion, even your transcendent illusion, as if I, or the gods, give a fuck what importance you assign to your altruism.

So you play a game, and you are (self-)aware twice a day (when you make the game and when you win or assess your game), and that's great.

Step up your game.

Become aware of getting up for the day. Become aware of choosing to jog because you want to choose to jog.

Become aware of yourself and your body in the shower. Become aware of you choosing to put on your panties.

You choose it all. That's very freeing.

So is choosing not to put on your ...

Well, I'll leave that experiential knowledge for you to find out....

I will say it's very ... liberating, and you become so much more aware of ... well, everything, when you're so ... um, ... 'liberated.'

*ahem*

;)

*blush*

Or, play the game of 'self-awareness' of 'choosing the "right" path for you' ...

... because we're all so concerned about you and your problems.

@_@

I do it. I do it everyday. I do it right now. I choose to look in the mirror, and beat the shit out of myself, everyday. I choose that.

Because it makes me a better person? For what again?

It's all vanity!

So you choose to be self-aware. Are you? Great! You win. Do your happy dance!

How come people who embark on the journey of self-awareness never do a happy dance while on the journey? And if it's a journey, where's the end of it? And if there's no end to the self-awareness journey, then what's the point?

*snicker*

Geddit?

Hey, look, take your self-awareness journey seriously, if you wanna, but, you know, it's your game that you chose, so you may as well be happy doing it, amirite?

Honey, I love you. You ... look: you are perfect, as you are, right now, and if you weren't, how could I possibly love you? I demand nothing but perfection from you, because I so demand it from me.

You wanna measure up? You measure up.

So there.

Oh, and one more thing:

Pensées of a Young Girl as She Goes Out Running

Before the run, on a clear, cool summer morning:

Hmm, looks like a good day to go for a run. (endumbfuckified stupid little shit girl look, doi-doi-doi!)

During the run:*

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK, fuck, fuckin-fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck, FUUUUUCCCKKK! (fucked)

After the run:

O God, I'm gonna puke. (vomitous)

Up the stairs to her apartment:

My legs! My legs! Who stole them and replaced them with licorice sticks! (perplexed)

Checking my look, my mottled face with sweat running down in rivulets look, in the mirror:

Gah! (horrified)

Half-an-hour after the run, after her shower, in the bus:

You know, it should be FUCKING ILLEGAL to be sweating THIS LONG AFTER a RUN. (furious)

Typing a blog entry, now:

Ick. I feel sick. Ouch. My legs. And, huh? What's with my arms aching? (bemused)

Tomorrow morning, when I wake up early again, knowing that I ... 'should'? ... 'will'? ... go out for another morning run:

GROAN! (covers head under pillow) (in agony from 'day-after' aches) (resigned)

---

* breaking 'during the run' down:

At the beginning:

Aw, this isn't so bad; I should do this EVERY DAY! (chipper)

A third of a mile into the run, the first uphill:

Hm, why are my legs stinging? (Pensive, but, damn, I was going for 'thoughtful')

A third of the way, a hot babe passes the other way:

"Hey!" (smiling) (trying to appear nonchalant, like: 'yeah, I do this all the time, wanna meet afterwards for a wild night of fun, hot babe?')

Half way:

You know (angrily), what's worse than going uphill? Going downhill. God! Why do all the sweat glands kick into overtime NOW, dripping sweat RIGHT INTO MY EYES?!?! ... and all over the front of my ... YOU KNOW! (meaning everything in 'front' that you don't want other people to notice, but the sweat clinging to your running tee and running shorts makes all too plain to notice, you know)

Three-quarters of the way, the long, gently sloping uphill:

What THE FUCK DOES 'GENTLY SLOPING UPHILL' mean? FUUUUUCCCKKK! Fucking Fuck. Fucking fucking fucking fuck. Fuck-fuck. Fuck. GOD! I can't breathe. Lean into it, `phfina. (desperate, like leaning into it will help at all, and yes, I know: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! 'Lean into ...it', geddit? ;)

Seeing my shadow in profile as I pant up the 'gently sloping uphill':

Fuck.*

(*) Meaning, remembering when I was in Monsieur Dupuis' French class back in high-school, and I always had to read the part of Jean-Paul in the text books, so M. Dupuis named me Jeanne-Paul in class, and that name got around school, and if you pronounce 'Jeanne-Paul' in Connecticut French really fast, you got my nick-name, that was totally physically accurate: 'Bean Pole'.

... like I said: Fuck.

Passing that hot babe again on her second turn, her: looking like a goddess, running past me, cool as a cucumber as I sweat and puff and pant like a 47-yr-old barfly on her 7th pack of cigarettes, ... this hour:

"Hey!" (tortured) (I don't think I carried off this 'hey' as well as I did the last one, however)

Making that last turn around a bush WAY overgrown onto the sidewalk, doubling the torque on my ankles:

It's a GOOD THING I'm not CARRYING a GUN because I would SHOOT that MOTHERFUCKER DEAD! CLEAN UP YOUR DAMN YARD, ASSHOLE! ('Neighborly')

Crossing the finish line:

O God! I'm fucking dead! O God! Fucking panties chafing my hooch and g-d 'sports'bra rubbing off my g-d nipples. Fuck. FUCK. Fucking-FUCK! ('Victorious')

Scintillating Thought for the Day

So, here's where I dispense my wisdom on my idle (I meant: idol! JEEZ!) worshippers. Prepare to be awwwwed. (I meant: awed! JEEZ!)

If you can include something ... or if you can exclude something, what is cluding something? Both?

Or did I just wander into a very raunchy BDSM scene where a very femmy domme is *ahem* cluding her big, ... long, ... purple ... *ahem* strapped-on clude into a very tied up to the table, very sweet submissive girl's very tight, but very lubricated ... um ... um ... bac... um ...

WHAT'S BEHIND YOU!

(`phfina scampers away)

Thus endeth `phfina' daily scintillating thought ... well, I was ... *ahem* 'scintillated'... um, yeah...