Kyle Jacob Biodrowski

Why did you wait until so late in the day to put this out? One might suspect you wanted to be sure the worst didn't come true before scoffing at it all. Even grumpy cat weighed in ahead of you!

Maybe he just finished it late. Or maybe he wanted to post it late so others wouldn't scoff and say "well it hasn't happened yet now has it, so you can't be sure".

Good faith, good Doctor, Good faith.

The Plowman – A Parable

The sun rose to cover the plains in a soft, golden light. The fields were carpeted in a thick prairie grass which danced gracefully in the breeze. The sky’s blue hue still held the purple tint of a fading night.

On a hill overlooking the fields stood a little brown cabin, its design was simple and sturdy. Its foundation had been built using a new construction technique, unique to history, the first of its kind. The brown tone of its wood was complimented by the golden brown grass of a neighboring field; this house was as much a part of the land as the prairie grass and golden rays of the sun.

The door swung open to reveal a young man. An old, though well-kept, pair of blue overalls over a scarlet shirt covered his proud posture. His white teeth shone in his smile. He greeted the outside world, and a gentle breeze surrounded him, welcoming him into it.

His attention turned to his field. Walking up to his plow, he took a moment to admire its design. It was a new model. Like the plows before it, it tilled the earth, yet this one didn’t require oxen to pull it. It could have been easily used by a child to till an entire acre of land.

“A technological wonder.” he thought.

He lifted the strap across his body and began to walk along the field until he arrived at the end of it. Lowering the blade, he began his trek across the outer edge. It was almost like magic. The earth parted with such ease beneath the blade, hundreds of pounds of dirt gave way, yet it was like taking a stroll to the marketplace.

“I’ll have this done in no time!” he smiled.

As he plowed the field, he heard a faint, weak voice ask him if he had the energy to fix a broken fence rail. He eagerly accepted the request, still elated over the progress he was making on his field. An ounce of energy left his body, no more than is required to take in a breath of air.

Another voice requested that he repair the school house’s leaky roof. He considered this for a moment and accepted. His body wavered as the energy left him; after a short burst of effort, he steadied himself.

As he continued plowing his field, chains began to form around his body. Small lead weights were attached to each link. His body sagged as they cut into his skin, blood trickled down his torso. He heard the voices urging him to work harder; they assured him the chains were for his own good and the common good. He didn’t quite believe it, but continued to work in spite of the extra weight.

Over time, his muscles grew; the once heavy lead weights became seemingly weightless. He became accustomed to the pain to the point of no longer feeling it, and his wounds started to heal as best they could. He wondered if he would have been able to continue if it weren’t for his new equipment. Likely not, he reasoned, and felt even more grateful for his plow. He knew he could finish his plowing in time to plant his crop.

He had just finished plowing when more chains materialized around his torso; he hit the ground, unprepared for the new weight. The stinging and pain returned manifold as old wounds were ripped open, blood spilling onto the earth. Still, the voices urged him on.

Unsteadily, gritting his teeth, he willed himself to his knees, then to his feet, and limped to his shed where he kept his seeds. He took the burlap sack in his arms and smiled, doing his best to ignore his aching muscles and torn skin.

“Just a little longer.” he assured himself.

He sowed the seeds in silence. The voices had quieted. He preferred their chatter to the silence; the silence made him think the voices were conspiring against him. And, right on cue, as if they had heard his thoughts, more chains dropped on his body. He endured them with a grunt; nothing would stop him from planting his crop.

By the time he had finished sowing his seeds, the skies had darkened; the last hues of blue were being pushed back by the onset of evening. He closed his eyes to rest. Hours passed, and the voices had gone. He imagined them fighting amongst themselves, dividing his potential crop among anyone and anything.

“Well, I won’t let them have it!” he resolved.

He was awoken by a faint rustling sound. It was the wind arcing itself around the leaves of the growths in his field. He rushed toward the newly grown produce, hoping to collect his reward before the voices returned.

He quickly gathered the matured crop. He held them in his arms as a father would have held his children. Only a moment passed before the chains tightened. He held the harvest to his aching torso, unwilling to let go. He peered down onto what was his. The fruit became discolored. It began to dry and crack. Bits of fruit became dust until they had all broken apart in his arms, the dust scattering into the wind.

Tears streamed down his face, as he held what dust remained in his hands. He didn’t move. His body was numb; he slumped to the ground. The voices returned to utter more words, yet these weren’t the words of encouragement he had heard earlier, these voices vilified him. They called him selfish, greedy, uncaring, and heartless.

The voices chattered that he wasn’t good enough for the ideal. He wasn’t good enough, strong enough, moral enough to bear their burdens and demands. The fault wasn’t in the chains that had broken him, it was his for not being strong enough to bear them.

Other voices joined in the chatter. These voices queried as to why he had fallen. They asked why he couldn’t continue, why he was still lying on the ground. They thought he could work forever, that he could bear any weight and any demand given to him. They reasoned that he was just lazy or that he didn’t care. These voices joined the others that chastised him.

Maybe they were right. He didn’t care, not any longer. He lied on the ground, feeling death’s cool touch caress his body. The moment before death was to take him, he felt a tingling warmth race up his body, and it was enough to shock him awake. He jolted to his knees and relaxed on the back of his ankles. What was this new strength and from where did it come?

Immediately, the realization struck him.

It was the promise his life had had at the beginning of it. It was the thought of what could have been, of what he could have been, and what he could still be. The only question that remained in his mind was: Why had he forgotten this?

The voices returned once again, this time with renewed vigor, they urged him to get up, to work, to produce, to contribute.

The voices, he thought. The voices are weak, feeble, and almost unreal. It only took one word to silence them. He looked down to observe the chains which still clung tightly to his body. It took only one word to break them. He said it again and again and again. The chains and weights shattered, link by link, they fell to the ground, and crumbled into dust.

“These weak things weighed me down?” he asked incredulously.

The chains had been broken by the utterance of a single word: No. It was a simple word, yet its power could liberate him of any demand, and lift any burden laid upon him.

He rose to his feet and looked toward the horizon.

In the sky, on the earth, and in his mind were written the words: Nova Era.

He greeted the morning sun with a smile.

Ayn Rand's definition of art is:

"Art is a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments."

I don't know the difference between a metaphysical value-judgment and an ordinary value-judgment. And I probably don't have a very good handle on what reality is. And I'm not sure what re-creation means.

Are these pictures art? If so, then what are the artist's metaphysical value-judgments? And who is the artist? And how are these pictures a selective recreation of reality?

I don't know the difference either. I think what Rand meant by re-creation is the portrayal of certain things within a medium (painting, music, poetry, etc.)

If those pictures are a selective re-creation of reality, I've never seen that kind of reality.

Is morality as black and white as Rand claimed? What is a moral purpose when one has no option to act as a means of supporting one's life?

What do you mean by the first sentence? If there is morality, there is the good and there is the evil.

As to the second sentence, morality doesn't apply when one doesn't have a choice, or if one lacks the ability to choose.

You kept your word, thank you for that. I'll have to read Aristotle's Poetics and your other listed material soon. I have a winter break coming up which will give me plenty of time to work on my parables and other stories.

It's easy to see that my parable was influenced by Rand; I found her work to be persuasive and powerful. She is probably the most influential writer I have ever read (so I guess it's to be expected that my work reflects her style). In fact, my next parable (which is nearing completion) has even more Randian inspired themes (with my own added charm, of course). There will be a good amount of universality in my next parable too.

Benevolence is not very Objectivist? I'm going to have a hard time believing that.

Those Objectivists who look down on kindness are likely still associating kindness with altruism. The two should be firmly divorced.

Bossiness?

I wasn't telling you how to answer. I recommended that you say this:

A bad habit in our subculture is to judge things intensely on superficial contact before knowing what they are--usually by following some opinion of Rand's or imagining what that opinion was. But not always. Sometimes it's just a bad habit or laziness.

Instead of this:

I think he's starting to see that a mind without a heart equals a thug--at the very best. The heartless mind may not look like a thug in the beginning, but he or she or the crowd somehow always ends up there.

In your post 31. Because the former is clearer.

Also, feuding? Where were the feuds. Are you counting our little misunderstanding as a feud?

Additionally, I thought you had forgotten about the parable. I'm about ready to release another story, but I am waiting for your comments.

A bad habit in our subculture is to judge things intensely on superficial contact before knowing what they are--usually by following some opinion of Rand's or imagining what that opinion was. But not always. Sometimes it's just a bad habit or laziness.

You could have just said this instead of the section I quoted in my post 36. The quote in my post 36 can lead to a lot of incorrect inferences whereas the quote above this sentence is much clearer.

I can see now that you were speaking of prejudice; I didn't know what you meant in the other quote.

As to the "SLOPPERS who adhere to a bigoted mentality", well, I'll leave that dog to lay.

I think he's starting to see that a mind without a heart equals a thug--at the very best. The heartless mind may not look like a thug in the beginning, but he or she or the crowd somehow always ends up there.

Michael

How exactly does a mind without a heart equal a thug. What do you mean by thug?

The reason they don't want to kill all the blacks is because individual blacks mean nothing metaphysically to them. Their target is the black tribe--the only true human existent their pea-brains can grok. Break the back of the offensive tribe and let the survivors beg for mercy. But don't worry. You can forget about those. They're bugs. They're nothing. Ditto for Muslims. Ditto for the individuals in all the collectives they hate.

Who is "they"?

btw Mike, you never interrupt my conversation, you just enhance it.

I am batting my eyelids just now.

With whom were you conversing? Are there ghost users I don't yet know about?

Homicidal violence against Michael Moore? I can dig it.

But why waste your knife wielding skills on Moore. He is simply a cheer leader, in a sea of cheer leaders, calling for more guns and more boots on more throats.

Why not go for The One? Well, he is highly guarded by a crack team of security officials. Honestly, I don't know how those security guys do it. They can't all agree with Obama, yet they are willing to step in front of a bullet for him. I couldn't give my life for a man who would destroy America if only the Republicans would humor him, as they often do anyway.

Sounds like an amazing story, all this guy needs is a romantic interest and it will be a story fit for the big screen.

I hear he is building camps and is loading up on hollow point bullets.

Where did you hear about this? It wouldn't surprise me if he did intend to lock some "dangerous" folks up, for the public good of course.

When does such thinking no longer fall in the category of paranoia?

When we have a totalitarian dictatorship.

The Social Democrats had the same problem. They warned the citizens of the Weimar Republic about Hitler. They were subsequently branded as alarmists and reactionaries. They were unable to appreciate Hitler's "great vision". The youth of the Weimar Republic wanted to sprint to Hitler's dream, not continue the slow crawl the Social Democrats proposed. Hmm... sounds familiar.

Keep in mind that Hitler and the Social Democrats only differed in degree, not in kind, on the kind of ideas they held.

...and building a cottage for Granny.

But I would have built you such a nice cottage.

Hmm.... If I won the lottery, I would visit my bullion dealer. I'd ask to see his most expensive gold coins (I'd just say I'm there to admire them). I'd then ask how much he wanted for them. He'd smirk and say: surely you can't afford them. I'd then pull out a couple thousand dollars and say: don't call me Shirley.

A man must be bigger than his money.

lol. You are a welcome addition to our elite community, Kyle. I'm guessing your mother's a Canadian.

Cuhnaydeean? Isn't that some kind of bacon? No, my mother certainly is not a meat product.

And I'm sure your father would say so also. Obviously you were brought up right.

And thus it is written, after a merciless onslaught of quips, Kyle was left broken and speechless. No amount of back-peddling (see post 13) would undo the damage wrought by a so cunning and wise opponent. And although Kyle drew first blood, he was helpless in the face of the enormity known as "wit". It is said that, to this day, you can still hear Kyle's frantic typing as he tried, and failed, to develop a sufficient retort. He was never heard from again.

...and building a cottage for Granny.

But I would have built you such a nice cottage.

Hmm.... If I won the lottery, I would visit my bullion dealer. I'd ask to see his most expensive gold coins (I'd just say I'm there to admire them). I'd then ask how much he wanted for them. He'd smirk and say: surely you can't afford them. I'd then pull out a couple thousand dollars and say: don't call me Shirley.

A man must be bigger than his money.

lol. You are a welcome addition to our elite community, Kyle. I'm guessing your mother's a Canadian.

Cuhnaydeean? Isn't that some kind of bacon? No, my mother certainly is not a meat product.

...and building a cottage for Granny.

But I would have built you such a nice cottage.

Hmm.... If I won the lottery, I would visit my bullion dealer. I'd ask to see his most expensive gold coins (I'd just say I'm there to admire them). I'd then ask how much he wanted for them. He'd smirk and say: surely you can't afford them. I'd then pull out a couple thousand dollars and say: don't call me Shirley.

A man must be bigger than his money.

If we don't cut government spending, we will go bankrupt or default on our obligations. Period.

Raising taxes on the "rich" appears to be the only practical way for R's to reach a deal to cut--however slightly--the rate of government spending, and thus the possibility of avoiding bankruptcy and/or default.

Does it not follow, then, that the R's should consider an agreement that includes raising taxes on the "the rich" in order to lessen the possibility of bankruptcy and/or default?

I don't think it will be much solace to the top wage earners that their taxes stayed ever the same if the country were to go into bankruptcy and/or default.

We are talking about the difference between "the rich" being taxed at 39% versus the current 36%, right? Is this block of 3% worth the risk I have outlined above?

I doubt the democrats intend to make any substantial cuts to spending. Furthermore, in the long run, tax hikes would lessen the amount of "revenue" the government receives.

Also, if taxes were raised, and spending was cut, what difference would that make? I doubt it would be nearly enough to turn the deficit into a surplus.

The country has been circling the drain pipe for a while now, and I'm not sure if a comeback is possible given the current political climate.

No, I can't imagine. Why, such felicity of language, such unprecedently brilliant choice of descriptive language as this short phrase displays, it quite makes me swoon... it is the greatest phrase ever presented... I am sure others will shortly appear to praise it in much the same manner as myself.....

Dat sarcasm.

(Wretched, bitter sob)..Oh, what's the use? You reach for the stars, you slave on parodic technique while holding down a backbreaking job two hours a week, you don't expect much when your fate is to aspire to satire.... and all you get is sarcasm, sarcasm...not your fault Kyle, you are young...no, no, I'll be fine, I am fine, really. Just give me a minute.

There, all better.

Verbal irony, if you prefer.

I eagerly await your comments, Michael.

Stephen,

Yep, a few people will find Manson...disturbing and crude (and loud).

I'm not sure who would consider Queen anti-life (well maybe one person).

Kyle,

I'm don't care much for Manson and I don't hate him, but I cringe at the use of the adjectives "headbanging, and caterwauling."

I wonder if anyone knows why?

Michael

"Headbanging" and "caterwauling" were intended to be a reference to the person who would find Manson beyond disgusting. A certain kiwi.

No, I can't imagine. Why, such felicity of language, such unprecedently brilliant choice of descriptive language as this short phrase displays, it quite makes me swoon... it is the greatest phrase ever presented... I am sure others will shortly appear to praise it in much the same manner as myself.....

Dat sarcasm.

Oh, you were talking about the lyrics. Is that what you feel the most important part of the song? I can't agree with that, it is always the sheer sound for me. Anybody could make up words, but few can make up music.

Hmm... I'll have to think on that.

Sheer sound, eh? Well then, I'll share with you one of the songs I like the most.

The sound came out really choppy on my computer, but it seems like a great, fun song.

The "choppiness" may have just been part of the song.

Don't know if you like any other genres, but there are usually music discussions going on here, I am taking part in one now.

I'm not much of a Manson fan anymore, though I still like a few of his songs. I'm mostly into power/symphonic metal; I also listen to alternative rock on occasion. I'll have to check out the discussion.

Pretty sure that you put "anti-life" in quotes because you well know that merely to sing is to be for life, expressing life, it can't be helped.

I put anti-life in quotes because I thought some people may consider that particular song anti-life even though I don't. The song is mostly centered on anti-bullying which I consider pro-life.

*Warning: Offensive content, headbanging, and caterwauling contained herein*

I loved this song during my adolescence. Even now, at the beginning of my second decade of life, I still have a soft-spot for this song.

I was wondering if anyone here has a particular "anti-life" song they like.

This is my first post here, and I thought I would post a short story of mine. I've posted this elsewhere, but I want a fresh opinion on it. Criticism is welcome and appreciated. Also, I know there are a few spelling and grammar errors in it; I didn't want to change it from the copy I posted elsewhere.

The first streaks of light raced across the early morning sky. The empty streets, however, were still covered in a murky haze.

John yawned lazily, reflecting on the night before, “Damn, what a night” he murmured. He gave his surroundings a quick look-over, seeing only empty streets, he continued walking. After a short-while, he heard a faint rustling sound. He closed in on the sound and ended up at the entrance of an alleyway. An open cardboard box is positioned in the alleyway and it appeared to be …. moving. John cautiously entered the alley and peers into the box only to be greeted by the sight of a litter of puppies, happily playing inside it. Suddenly, an old man appeared in front of him. John, astonished, jumped back, fearing that he is about to be mugged. The old man raised his hands to show that he was unarmed.

John had never seen a man, let alone an old man, like this before. He looked … odd. He wasn’t crouched and lurching; he moved with a brisk gait and stood tall and proud. His blue eyes glimmered with wisdom, his wrinkled skin, not showcasing weariness, but experience. He smiled at John. A grandfatherly smile, John thought.

“Who are you?” John asked.

The old man continued to smile. He bent down, reaching into the box, to delicately retrieve a pup.

“Do you want one?” The old man queried.

John, still somewhat shocked by his appearance, stammered “What?”

“Do you want a puppy? I know he doesn’t look like much now, but if you care for him, feed him, and train him, he will grow to love you. He will be your guardian and protect you from those who wish to do you harm.”

John, finally recovered from his initial shock, considered the proposal.

“I guess I could use some protection.”

The old man handed him the puppy.

“Before you go, I must warn you” The old man’s voice growing stern, but still kind. “Only use this pup to fend off aggressors, never use it to act out your own aggression.”

John nodded and, hurriedly, walked out of the alley.

Over time, the puppy grew. Its limbs became strong, its teeth, sharp, yet it only possessed a rudimentary intelligence. It needed John to guide it to its proper function.

One warm morning, John decided to take a stroll with his dog. While walking past an alley, he was attacked by two knife-wielding thugs. John, paralyzed by fear, froze. His dog, however, sprang into action, and made quick work of the thugs.

A few others had heard the commotion and went to investigate. They were greeted with the sight of a triumphant beast and a shaken owner.

It was time to use the dog for its proper purpose, as a safeguard of human life against its destroyers. Those who had witnessed the dog’s prowess also gathered around John and his guardian for protection.

John, along with his new companions, built a flourishing city. Every man and woman worked without fear that the fruits of their labor would be stolen by thugs, and they all prospered. Word spread of a safe and prosperous city, and more people came seeking a life free from tyranny in this burgeoning city. But this prosperity brought another kind of creature.

One afternoon, a group of citizens went to John with a few concerns. They suggested he use the dog to obtain goods by force. John, severely offended, immediately refused, but eventually gave in to their pressuring. They assured him that he was embarking on a great social good. He was uncertain, but accepted their demands.

As the goods were seized, the demands grew larger and larger. Soon there was more demand for goods than there were goods. John decided to put a stop to this but the group would not have it.

The dog was seized, and John was left helpless.

The sun was setting on the once prosperous city.

In the darkening gloom, John heard the dog snarling and saw the smiling faces of the group. They were talking too him, but he didn’t hear a word. His last thoughts were of the old man, he pictured the old man smiling, though the smile wasn’t joyful.

The old man said:

“The dog is under new ownership. You fed the dog, and loosened its leash, and now you are its next meal.”