Hey all.
I put some videos of me having fun at the pool!
Enjoy
and another
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Fifty dollar cables = Fifty dollar smiles
So guess what?
For a loong time my sound had not been working on my computer, which prevented me from all sorts of stuff, like having the full experience of porn, and now I fixed it!
Also I got a USB cable thingy for my camera to put pictures and videos up.
And Holy moley, i just put a video up on YOUTUBE!
Here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6o5jRJU14Q
It's like my first one ever.
So give me a good rating cause you like me!
Bye for now
-Chase.
For a loong time my sound had not been working on my computer, which prevented me from all sorts of stuff, like having the full experience of porn, and now I fixed it!
Also I got a USB cable thingy for my camera to put pictures and videos up.
And Holy moley, i just put a video up on YOUTUBE!
Here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6o5jRJU14Q
It's like my first one ever.
So give me a good rating cause you like me!
Bye for now
-Chase.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Hey
Hi, I am alive.
I have risen from my dark grotto of internet anti-socialism,
And have returned for yet another spell-binding saga.
Hopfully even less perfect than before!
I hope that love is still around.
I am unsure as to what that might be
(I'll "wait without hope" on that one.)
thanks!
-Chase
I have risen from my dark grotto of internet anti-socialism,
And have returned for yet another spell-binding saga.
Hopfully even less perfect than before!
I hope that love is still around.
I am unsure as to what that might be
(I'll "wait without hope" on that one.)
thanks!
-Chase
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Poem 071407
STAY
As the curtains waved, he stared at them and realized his life.
The hole in the cloth,
a ship in the Bering sea.
The leaves dove past him,
the days in the year were silent.
Darkness was nestling in,
his age was a strangle (or a noose).
He knew the bear on the hill was asleep and dying,
He knew the swan (draped in the silt of the world)
had lost her feathers to fly.
Still or creeping, it was an effort.
And still the creeping was effortless.
And still was all he could be
until the ship sailed to the bottom,
the swan flew without feathers,
and the bear slept without rest.
-Chase C. Adams
As the curtains waved, he stared at them and realized his life.
The hole in the cloth,
a ship in the Bering sea.
The leaves dove past him,
the days in the year were silent.
Darkness was nestling in,
his age was a strangle (or a noose).
He knew the bear on the hill was asleep and dying,
He knew the swan (draped in the silt of the world)
had lost her feathers to fly.
Still or creeping, it was an effort.
And still the creeping was effortless.
And still was all he could be
until the ship sailed to the bottom,
the swan flew without feathers,
and the bear slept without rest.
-Chase C. Adams
Friday, June 22, 2007
062207
TURN OF THE CENTURY
It was supposed to be better than the rest, our twentieth century.
But it won't have time to prove it.
Its years are numbered,
its step unsteady
its breath short.
Already too much has happened
that was not supposed to happen,
and what was to come
has yet to come.
Spring was to be on its way
and happiniess, among other things.
Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.
the truth was supposed to finish before the lie.
Certain misfortunes
were never to happen again
such as war and hunger and so forth.
The defenselessness of the defenseless
was going to be respected.
Same for trust and the like.
Whoever wanted to enjoy the world
faces an impossible task.
Stupidity is not funny.
Wisdom is not cheerful.
Hope
is no longer the same young girl
et cetera. Alas.
God was at last to believe in man:
good and strong.
But good and strong
are still two different people.
How to live -- someone asked me in a letter,
someone I had wanted to ask the same thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones.
-- Wislawa Szymboraka
It was supposed to be better than the rest, our twentieth century.
But it won't have time to prove it.
Its years are numbered,
its step unsteady
its breath short.
Already too much has happened
that was not supposed to happen,
and what was to come
has yet to come.
Spring was to be on its way
and happiniess, among other things.
Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.
the truth was supposed to finish before the lie.
Certain misfortunes
were never to happen again
such as war and hunger and so forth.
The defenselessness of the defenseless
was going to be respected.
Same for trust and the like.
Whoever wanted to enjoy the world
faces an impossible task.
Stupidity is not funny.
Wisdom is not cheerful.
Hope
is no longer the same young girl
et cetera. Alas.
God was at last to believe in man:
good and strong.
But good and strong
are still two different people.
How to live -- someone asked me in a letter,
someone I had wanted to ask the same thing.
Again and as always,
and as seen above
there are no questions more urgent
than the naive ones.
-- Wislawa Szymboraka
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Lately, I have had few but great troubles.
They set me back and make me survive.
But instead of telling my troubles (for fear of losing my audience),
I will mention some small recurring theme that follows them.
In the last month I have repeatedly opened a book of poetry.
William Stafford's "An Oregon Message".
Whenever I would open the book, it would be at random,
in hopes that perhaps it would give me insight to my life at the moment.
(To give an idea, I maybe have opened the book at random 30 times or so).
More often than not, I feel that it does give me some clue to my life at hand.
Now in my past two (rather large) troubles that I've faced, I decided to open William Stafford to see if he can help me in anyway (at least a change of perspective). At those two times it keeps opening to the same poem (these are the only two times that I have opened the book to this).
It goes like this...
ULTIMATE PROBLEMS
In the Aztec design God crowds
into the little pea that is rolling
out of the picture.
All the rest extends bleaker
because God has gone away.
In the white man design, though,
no pea is there.
God is everywhere,
but hard to see.
The Aztecs frown at this.
How do you know he is everywhere?
And how did he get out of the pea?
NOW!
I keep having the same thoughts of the poem rehearsed to myself, and it's getting me nowhere.
I feel that there might be something really really really significant in it all.
Feedback?
They set me back and make me survive.
But instead of telling my troubles (for fear of losing my audience),
I will mention some small recurring theme that follows them.
In the last month I have repeatedly opened a book of poetry.
William Stafford's "An Oregon Message".
Whenever I would open the book, it would be at random,
in hopes that perhaps it would give me insight to my life at the moment.
(To give an idea, I maybe have opened the book at random 30 times or so).
More often than not, I feel that it does give me some clue to my life at hand.
Now in my past two (rather large) troubles that I've faced, I decided to open William Stafford to see if he can help me in anyway (at least a change of perspective). At those two times it keeps opening to the same poem (these are the only two times that I have opened the book to this).
It goes like this...
ULTIMATE PROBLEMS
In the Aztec design God crowds
into the little pea that is rolling
out of the picture.
All the rest extends bleaker
because God has gone away.
In the white man design, though,
no pea is there.
God is everywhere,
but hard to see.
The Aztecs frown at this.
How do you know he is everywhere?
And how did he get out of the pea?
NOW!
I keep having the same thoughts of the poem rehearsed to myself, and it's getting me nowhere.
I feel that there might be something really really really significant in it all.
Feedback?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Wonderful Tonight
Last night I went to two parties.
One was a birthday for one of my friends (where surprisingly I knew many more people than I thought I would know), and the second was a party where I only knew one person, and the rest were cross-dressers that were dancing around to things like the movie "RENT" and CHICAGO" and just as well doing Margaret Cho impressions.
It was all fun, it was new and exciting and everyone that I met was great.
There was one problem though. Something almost meager in size but creates an impeccable outcome.
It was the little black hole of thought, sucking away my thinking, and crushing it to death. keeping me unable to respond to anybody in any way. Like my brain had been coated in a sort of ancient painted crust, or mummified.
As I stood just outside the circles of blather (my words being smashed between the jaws of my social distress), I discovered that I still had my default words. The words you use when you don’t know what else to say. I think to myself that with a little spice of enthusiasm I could utilize those words to be involved in a conversation!
But how should I begin?
And how should I then presume?
"Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets and watched the smoke that rises from pipes of lonely men in short sleeves leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
My enthusiastic dullness did not work so well. Some part of me had realized that at some point I must carry on a conversation.
The night was wasted in a learning experience.
One was a birthday for one of my friends (where surprisingly I knew many more people than I thought I would know), and the second was a party where I only knew one person, and the rest were cross-dressers that were dancing around to things like the movie "RENT" and CHICAGO" and just as well doing Margaret Cho impressions.
It was all fun, it was new and exciting and everyone that I met was great.
There was one problem though. Something almost meager in size but creates an impeccable outcome.
It was the little black hole of thought, sucking away my thinking, and crushing it to death. keeping me unable to respond to anybody in any way. Like my brain had been coated in a sort of ancient painted crust, or mummified.
As I stood just outside the circles of blather (my words being smashed between the jaws of my social distress), I discovered that I still had my default words. The words you use when you don’t know what else to say. I think to myself that with a little spice of enthusiasm I could utilize those words to be involved in a conversation!
But how should I begin?
And how should I then presume?
"Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets and watched the smoke that rises from pipes of lonely men in short sleeves leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
My enthusiastic dullness did not work so well. Some part of me had realized that at some point I must carry on a conversation.
The night was wasted in a learning experience.
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