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Monthly Archives: June 2016

The new fan film guidelines by the current copyright holders of Star Trek are, frankly, stupid. Neither CBS nor Paramount were the creators of this series. Gene Roddenberry and Desilu were.

What does that mean?

It means that they lack the passion and the sense of risk-taking which built Star Trek, and sustained it throughout its first decade–the most critical of its existence.

They do not care about the very people who sustained this dead TV series and took inspiration from it, and created heartfelt tributes to it.

They should be ashamed.

I do not intend to see the new movie the current copyright holders are releasing next month.

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We could have been legendary lovers,
but something got in our way,
threw us off the rails
and leave us both alone to this day.

When you put on your sunglasses,
shading you from the world,
my heart aches just a little,
At locked doors and missing keys.

I wish to hold and to kiss you,
show you I’m right here
where I was meant to be,
waiting for you to see
your other half is me.

I’ll always be here waiting,
Waiting for you to see
I’m your missing peace,
your other half is me.

We could have been legendary lovers,
but life got in our way.
Kids and committments,
other hearts and our limits,
so we’re separate today.

But somewhere in our future,
or in some other life,
we are happy together
as man and wife.

But until that day comes,
or till the day I die,
I’ll be standing here waiting
in the background of your life.

And I’ll always be here
just within your reach,
to learn how to love you
by the lessons that you teach.

Yes I’ll always be here waiting,
waiting for you to see.
I’m forever beside you,
your other half is me.

The lazy American now stops, strokes his chin ponderously, and decides he will share a tidbit of his profoundness with his echo chamber.

His sonorous pronouncements into the void make a lovely resonance which fills him with self-reverence.

No one responds. No one but him cares of these things of import upon which he importunes. Even he lets his mind drift to some other next thing which interests him, only dropping this–whatever–here so that he might point to it in a day, in a year, and muse upon its empty greatness.

And then he will lurch on to the next distraction.

Meanwhile, machines kill distant unknowns unbeknownst to him in his name, as we lay dying a heat-death in a fevered dream.