Mergooland by Peter Penguin

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, November 30, 2008


The lights turn on, the crowd is silenced, the music echoes through the room, a tall boy in an ancient juggler suit comes to stage and the green and blue lights focus in him. The play starts. The juggler says some words, words written by an author long dead, words memorized by Ray Simmons, but neither Ray or Peter Penguin, the author, are talking now, it's just the juggler. He speaks of a foreign world to all of us, he depicts a forsaken kingdom existing in the world he came from, telling everyone in the theater how sad was the princess belonging to that kingdom. And neither Ray or Peter ever met this kingdom, or this princess, nor will they ever, but this is not about them, this is about the juggler from other world standing in front of everyone.

Then the juggler becomes the narrator, and the castle appears form a mist, at the same time some badly painted paper unrolls from the top of the stage, showing a poorly drawn castle by the art club. But little does this paper matters, the crowd is faced with a majestic castle from a magical kingdom. So it goes. And then a princess appears from one of the windows, for the story's sake, the crowd is able to hear from her seat in the far away castle. She says some words referring to what the crowd understands as depression due to existentialist over speeching. But back in Mergoonland, they don't know what existentialism is, so, it's not that. Peter Penguin was wrong.

And so the story goes as the people in their seats consider, a poor play with clique characters with a very unsubtle message of existence and meaning. They're all wrong, Mergooland had never seen such a brave knight or such a fierce dragon, the don't know what a clique of a knight is and they never intended their princess to be kidnapped for the liberty metaphor content. The people from Mergooland celebrate happy due to the fact that their precious order is now restored, the crowed is bored due to the predictableness on it all, and Peter Penguin is somewhere, six feet under ground, wondering how high must he have been to put his name on such play.

Mergooland's story of the happiest wedding ever is over, they will keep the rest private. The audience makes some forced clapping, the backcloth is closed and no one sees anytthing more. The school's drama teacher is ashamed of the outcome, not as badly as Peter Penguin. Some people not previously presented appear on stage, this people don't come from Mergooland. They are actors who dress as if they were people from that ancient kingdom, but they're not. Ray Simmons and his pals are all proud for their good job, they bow for over five minutes and think it all went well. Mergoolanders live happily ever after.

[this is (obviously)not part of the so called arc... It will come when it comes]
By I'm the penguin

In construction... not anymore

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, November 29, 2008


Because in my mind, simple but meaningful riffs come and remind me....

Feel My Bones....

[ Mrs. K i t e ]

Just a mometum: inelastic meetings

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, November 28, 2008


Aiden was new in a school where we all had known each other since kindergarten, well that is kind of an exaggeration, almost no one knew me, and I didn’t know the name of at least the 5% of the school, but I had sure been seeing their faces for a while. He came from some not so snobbish city in California (which is possible). And that is almost all I could say about him, because describing him in a sentence or two would be futile, his story most be told.

Aiden was a little boy when he first found out broken bones heal in matter of weeks. Ever since then, he climbed trees every day and he threw himself to the ground, just for the fun of it. In his daredevil affairs he also found out confidence could heal, just like bones, maybe it had a tendency to break more and have life permanent scars, but it still healed. So at seven he said so long to shyness and entered the school plays and talked to kids in upper years. These innocent actions later became stealing the school mascot’s suit in home coming game to make impolite, so to say, body signals to the other team, along with some egg throwing. Another famous one was pouring twenty sacks of Corn starch into the school’s pool, and then running over water in front of everyone. The dude was kind of crazy.

And back to my story, it all started like many things around me start, with a ring. I went running to A. P Literature while reading about some guy named Carnot, apparently he was the first to notice water boiled with heat. He was not only a scientist but an idealist as well, which is not always the same. So I was minding my own business when Jock McStud runs into me and we collide, there was no inelasticity, or in other words I flew across the hall in opposite direction. Obviously I took the hard blow and hit the floor, along with my bag and many books. And for my surprise, this Jock guy stared at me with doubtive face and just said “Should I help you or something?” he was not from around here, at least local jerks have the decency to say sorry.

So I stood up fast and clean, ready to enter when this guy was cynic enough to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Aiden, and kind of new here” he said, extending his hand as if I cared enough to shake it, which I anyways did. “I’m Greg” I said, ready for him not to care and just leave to his Appreciation of music I, then the weird part started. “Carnot? Really? Are you going trough scientific literature or something?” He asked, more intrigued than worried.

“Oh, no this is mine, as in not from the class” I gibberished, impressed by him knowing who Carnot was, it’s not like it figures in all textbooks with drawings. “Well, unless you’re taking class in the hallway we kind of should get in” he said looking at his watch, apparently we were already five minutes late, and he knew who Carnot was.

As he followed me to the classroom (because he had no idea where anything was) I asked him where he came from “California” he said, not a city, not a direction, just California. “So are you in any other A.P classes?” I asked, wanting to know how bad was my previous jock judgment.”Not many…” he said, which meant only this one… I guess some people are just good at literature and being jocks.

And after a few seconds of silence, “just the basic ones” he said, in a lower voice “you know… chemistry, geometry, those kinds of classes” he said. My expression couldn’t have been more amazed, I was getting really bad at this match-class-with-look game. “What? Don’t I look like your average nerd?” he said, obviously noticing my expression and making such an irony, comparing Michael Angelo’s David to Munch’s Scream, right in our humble Public School Jefferson’s south corridor.

Then the class began, he introduced himself to the whole class and again only said “California”, which sounded enough hot for most girls who started giggling, then he was asked what had he worked with, and gave him a copy of “A hundred years of solitude” which apparently he had read in the summer, for the second time. All and all he seemed like a nice guy, a weird combination of cool 90s Californian kid with Chicago nerd, but I would let tags for later, this one was complex.


[lateness due to quality obsession]
By I'm the penguin

Stories told by it.

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, November 27, 2008


Today I’m going to talk about a guy.
I was I guess 10 years when the book came to me.
It was orange and white; it had an interesting title, at least for a 10 year old.
And it had a creature in the cover.
This creature called my attention. I had no idea what it was but I was damn sure it was similar to the creatures I imagined and I drew.
So it was when I met this guy.
Of shy aspect, and humble covers.
I read it in a blink.
Then she told me about how he loved this guy.
And I felt as if he was telling stories to me, in bed time, I read them and I imagined his voice.
I could remember his voice in that time, now I can’t.
And I remember the CuendĂș. I have one as a pet… or is it me?

[Mrs. K i t e ]

N's first law: Wait for the push

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, November 26, 2008


“You know, all these physics laws seem to go beyond regular bodies in average conditions, it goes to a level where it rules people and stuff. Like a person won't move from their comfort zone unless they're struck by an outer force, or once you've gone wild you won't stop unless there is an outer body stopping you. Or as better put by Newton, inertia.”

“Wow, that’s deep” she said, staring confused

“I guess…”

“And I don’t need deep for my exam, just go over the formulas thank you” she said, with a make-worth-those-five-bucks-an-hour kind of look. And as we moved on into momentum and conservation of energy, I hold to the thought. But are we really inert, are we really always hopping for an outer force to drive us away from our pattern of inaction? Maybe not for all, but at least it is a law for me.

Perhaps she would never get it, partly because she simply couldn’t understand something as simple as F=ma, and because her life it’s just a rollercoaster of senseless, shallow, yet overwhelmingly events. But despite the fact she is learning a whole semester of physics, a day before the finals, I’m sure she wouldn’t trade it, objects in movement tend to remain like that, unless there’s an outer force to stop them. And nothing was stopping Jenna Goldberg, at least not until college. I’m also certain she didn’t chose me to teach her do to my tendency of moving, as my net fun energy equals zero, it is all potential.

And after a tedious week of tutoring half of my class in things that went as basic as to divide fractions, to something more complicated, square roots. The finals were over, which meant another prom I was not going, which also meant doing plans with my so called friends so we ended up doing nothing all summer long. And let’s not forget the parental insistence about attending band camp, both of them were in band in their high schools and they had the hopes I would have some sort of musical talent, I didn’t, but still, I got the geek genes. But as every year, after the bell rang announcing we were free, and until the bell rang again two months later, telling us the sweet freedom was over, I did nothing.

Maybe some part of me was always waiting for that external force, maybe my whole life had been about expecting an alive Schröringer’s cat, the bad news, such cat never existed. It was not like I didn’t love staying a Saturday night playing Halo with some crazy 30-year-old man from Singapore (online).

It’s just that some part of me wanted to be that guy, that guy who skips class just to lay in the grass one more hour talking about nothing, I wanted to be that guy who is always invited to the Barbies’ birthdays, I wanted to be that cool guy who had lots of drunk stories. But instead I was me. But something in me (perhaps sissiness) always believed in that external force, that uncertainty about dead cats, I need a delta in my U.

And that is precisely where Hayden comes along. I know that this kind of stories usually lead to nerd kid meeting some hot chick that for some reason was interested in him, all which leads to a whole new world of possibilities, but sorry, I'm not that much of a clique.

[to be continued, this is going to be kind of a large get ready for an arch]
By I'm the penguin

Music to...

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, November 25, 2008


I believe kite's feelings towards music have been obvious across the fields.
But she was listening to the one who'll be listened, and she thought about lots of things.
Music to sing
Music to say
Music to kill fascism
Music to live
Music to eternity
Music to love
to miss
to expect
to inspire
to hate
to feel nostalgic
to ride
to shower
to remember
to doubt.

[ Mrs. K i t e ]
this will go one once I don't have bodyguards...

Not the same old sandwich

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, November 24, 2008


Kids these days... a good old peanut butter jelly just won't do...

By I'm the penguin

An ephemeral forever

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, November 23, 2008


Can you see it?
See what?
It is dancing, dancing with the air.
Quick moves, as if it was scared, but constant.
Flows, gently.
Warm light.
They’re the same thing, moving with the same rhythm as a magic synchrony.
And no one notices.
But they don’t need to.
It doesn’t matter.
An ephemeral forever.
That may be forgotten.
But that won’t.

[Mrs. K i t e ]
that might be the problem... the lack of ....

He just wants to

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, November 23, 2008


He hates it, he hates how people call him all they long, he hates how he can't be all lonely and melancholic in a dark room, he hates how they often call to say nice things. And it's not because he's the depressive type, or because he hates the people per se, is far more complex than that, or more simple, depends on how you see it. He just wants some time alone so he can pity himself, so he can whine to himself about how miserable his life is, to complain to the universe why is he so unfortunate. But of course he needs to be alone, for his life is perfect.

He lacks nothing, and of course he could have more, even God would like another universe every now and then. He has a supportive family and joyous friends, his job is the most exciting one since they stopped considering sky-diving a job. He earns a nice amount of money and his girlfriend is lovely. Yet he wants to feel the drama and the tragedy, he just does.

And so, with such a perfect pack of people around him and wonderful circumstances how could he be so cynical as to say "I simply don't like it, any of it". Because he sometimes wishes his mother was an alcoholic and his dad had left them, so then he could join some gang in his adolescence and then become an addict, so he could climb from all that crap and become a wounded writer, you know, the Pulitzer-material kind f writers. But his dream was not to be a writer, it never was, he just wanted a harder life.

By now you may think he is crazy, and you're in all you're right, he is. But something that most be known is that he considers happiness doesn't come with success or a beautiful family, a nice pair of JimmyChoo's or a hot Lexus. All those things are the preview, they re the things you make so when you're old and worthless you can brag about your youth. But true happiness comes when at the end of the day, past the money and relationships, past your success or underachivements in life, at the end what matters is that you like who you are, and if for that you have to feel a little more miserable, go ahead.

By I'm the penguin

It exists, it doesn't

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, November 21, 2008


What's happening right now.
This is a game.
It is not.
But it is better if it is.
This will be published somehow by that superior cyberspace superior being.
While the expectation is or isn’t met.
The faded desire.
The senseless daydream
The perhaps unwanted result.
A crooked game, for a crooked heart.

Dream Expected
Freudian Expectation
Post un-met expectations depression

So cats live, cats die, or we never know… There are actually three options

[Mrs. K i t e ]

Derril Woplley

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in , | Posted on Thursday, November 20, 2008


And Derril Woplley writes essays, containing information that is classified as many types of essays, all but true ones. He also makes applications like crazy, he is doing 10 hours a week of extra curricular activities and he is looking for scholarships all over the place, even in the local store (after all the old lady from the Winston Cheese store always liked him). He hardly sleeps and he is always thinking of what should he do next. Yes, Derril Woplley is senior.

He has dreams and hopes, or at least he has been told so. He is expecting to go to a good college, so he can be a top student, get into a multinational, earn half a million dollars a year and be happy, or so it goes. He knows he has to do all these things to be happy, he knows he will be happy once he buys his first BMW, he fantasies about how merry will his life become once he has a huge flat of his own, he is sure he will be happy. So he is certain that by following this tremendously hard process, he will be happy, because that is what they have all promised him.

And Derril has no time to wonder about this, but what if he is not happy with his first BMW? What if a gold-digger super model can't make him as happy as he plans to be? What if all these things he is doing are just part of a life plan made by someone who is not him? You can ask him and he would say that he has wanted that his entire life, but Derril can't remember when he decided to go to law school because he likes it, or even feels appealed to it.

And if Derril gave more thought to it, he would notice he hasn't made any of those important choices by his own will. Studying junior high and high school just seamed the obvious step to follow, and then applying for the colleges that are spotted as the best. And in his entire life he has never made a true choice, that is because his path is already made, isn't it obvious he is meant to end up with his shinny red BMW? What will be of Derril when he's out of college? Will he go to the best law firm in his city and begin as an intern and climb his way into being an associate? And will that be his decision? or has it been plotted since the moment he bought his first inhale of oxygen?

But mostly, will Derril realize any of this on time? Or will he die thinking his life was magnificence? It doesn't matter, because the master minds behind the Derril-Woplley project plotted the whole thing that way, they don't care how he feels, they don't mind if he works his but off to achieve nothing, yet they don't want him to think about any of this. But anything goes as long as Derril keeps buying that red BMW, as long as everything inside his lovely flat has a pricey tag on it. The masters are tolerant as long as the cow can be milked to dead.

By I'm the penguin