Take Erasive Action

So lately I've been thinking how I should get back into writing. Like short stories and things... keep up my chops. I used to use this blog here to keep those creative chops alive, but I really just spiraled into passages of intimacy so far abstracted from the reader that most likely only I understood what I was talking about. I never felt comfortable as a writer, and maybe this was the cause of me hiding my words in such flowery prose. Another thought crosses my mind: maybe I simply think too much and the ideas that spring forth are too personal for me to actually feel safe sharing with possibly the whole world. And thus I veiled my thoughts with metaphors and allusions to magicians and vikings. Most likely it was a combination of these two things. No, not a combination of magicians and vikings (there's a thought!), but a combination of insecurities as a writer and my reservations about revealing my ponderings to the user.

But a new year is upon us, and a change is overdue! After all, how can I expect a good discourse when I give nothing away to you to discourse about? There, I've done it a second time, breaking the preposition rule! I read in a book recently that sometimes you just have got to ignore that rule. I used to stick to it like a glove sticks to another glove that someone glued to it with superglue. But then that sentence would read "After all, how can I expect a good discourse when I give nothing away to you about which to discourse?" and then it becomes ugly and obvious. You'd simply stop there and close this page, thinking to yourself: "This guy can go fuck himself. Seriously."

But back to my point about getting back into writing. Short stories always used to be fun. I used to write them all the time back in high school. In college, not so much as I had friends to do things with (<---). I took a few creative writing classes to try to keep in the habit, and I churned out a few stories about zombies. But as of late I've been thinking about it more, and if I want to get serious about it I need to practice.

Reading could also help. I really really love stories, but I don't read enough. It's such a chore to begin a book. As a creative individual I prefer to create instead of actively absorb into someone else's works. That is not to say that I do not enjoy the latter. I enjoy movies and music immensely, especially those with wonderful stories and emotions. So why would it be any different with books? I have a bookshelf half-full of unread books I'm sure I'd enjoy. Perhaps I view it as research and that makes it less appealing. That's just how my mind works and I am turned off from the fact of it. But I need to learn. I need to improve. I know I am not the best writer and I've only so many years left to prepare. I have stories to tell the world. And if I expect them to listen, I'd better have damn good chops. Or at least an interesting voice.

The Passion in Silence

The air is still tonight. I hear the sirens down the street beckoning to me to come join them in their merriment. But no, it is late and I must sleep soon. The bed sits there--warm, inviting--like the arms of a mother to her newborn. But soon it will be empty. Soon I will be gone, moved on to a new chapter in my life. What will become of this place? It's just a single room, I'm just a single man, a simple man. It will grow cold, bereft of the warmth it once gave so freely. It will grow tired, stricken of the life it once housed. It will grow silent, every last melody plucked from the air onced breathed. The silence... I can hear it now. Sleeping, still like the air, like I will be in moments. But now I write.

What will become of me? The future holds her slender hand to mine, and I eagerly grab hold. She leads me to new places, new art, and new love. Her flowing hairs, tendrils of opportunity, shimmer in the moonlight. Eyes closed, I run my hand through the strands and breathe deeply. The flavor of life fills my throat and my heart, and my eyes erupt to the stars. Out there... that's where I'm going. That's where I will find my philosophy, my music, my life... and my love. That is where it will begin.

Vīgrīthr's Calling

At the behest of several individuals I have died. No! It was by no mere fault of my own, but rather my own choice. This fleeting August pulled at me with all its claws and eventually my chest was rent. As the blood flowed from my broken body, I lay there in its warm inviting scent and it washed over my eyes as they sank into a world of oblivion, a world of dreams. Or were they dreams, these black & white snapshots of my life... or a previous life? At this current hour, I cannot say. The world flew by me at lighting speeds, yet I did not notice. The sky turned red and churned with waves only fit for an ocean, yet I did not notice. My enemies became my friends and my mind became my body--yet I did not notice.

In these ephemeral moments I recalled my life, or at least what I knew of it. My frail hours spent in eternal toil... and for what? The illusion at last was complete, and I--a vagrant hidden in the aft of the theater--had seen all the magician's devices and slights. And ho! It was a mere parlor trick, something even I could perform at parties... 'twas only meddling with the Gods! Life. Death. Two sides of a die--a die with so many more possibilities! And as I look back now, these revelations seem only incosequential as the darkness and dreams released me and I awoke in a Vita-chamber.

Peripeteia

I always find it difficult to write in this blog. Perhaps I don't want to simply tell you what I'm doing, where I've been, where I'm going. Perhaps I just want my journal to be a bit more personal, something to set it apart from all the other blogs online. No news, no musings (well maybe some), no ideas, no politics. Naturally, at this time or that I fall victim to such posts--such lengthy posts as they turn out to be. (You can't fault me for it... it was a different time back then!) What CDs have I bought? What jobs have I acquired, lost, completed? Ah, but these are all things you could simply ask me in life, and I assuredly would tell you, albeit I would probably riddle my answers with puns and sarcasm and only a sharp mind could glean the true answer from my words. This journal is more of a peek into my mind at a particular point in time, at least that's how I imagine it. Maybe I'm just delusional.

And I always find it difficult to write in this blog. You might wonder why I am writing in it right now, if I don't have anything in particular to write about. Well, it appears I do, as I am typing this entry and, lo, I am already well into the second paragraph. It's like a pebble in the river, being pulled this way and that until finally it gets caught between two large rocks firmly planted in the riverbed. It struggles to overcome these rocks, it wants to continue its journey down the stream hoping for an ocean, or, if not, at least a lake. So as it struggles, the raging rapids tear against the pebble, eating away at its small figure with their lashing tongues. Eventually, the pebble is free again, though smaller, missing information on all sides. It may now enter that ocean, however. The ocean can devour that pebble until it is lost deep within the watery stomach. Was this really worth it after all?

You can unravel the thread, I'll just give you the needle.

Man's Reach Exceeds His Grasp

The page, it sits as I sit--empty with no one to tell me stories for recount. Alone? No, I do not sit here alone, only in person but not in mind. I stare at a hand emerging from a hat, fingers curled into a horrified grasp. The hat, a magician's, lies on bloodied surface. The man inside the hat must be very small, or is it just the magician's lies that are very large? It's hard to say. I am horrified, like the hand, at the future and these moments of ill requitements that I so often seem to find and fear. A loss for words shows through and the tales of days seem trivial. What of philosophy, music, life... love? When these are spoken in true earnest then, maybe, this armor will break and I will fill my mouth with the warm smoke and my belly will become full once again. And yes, these must be spoke, for I am too aporetic in my learnings and lies. These magician's lies which so silently fall on my ears, stealing the blood from my veins so none may return to the heart. The hand, it's terrified fingers curved as if to hold something--something warm, bloodied, like the surface, but yet still beating. Is it my own? Something has indeed grabbed me, but is it vain, fleeting, hopeless drops?

My sentiments echo once more of the moon--repetition is the enemy in parallel, but a friend in feeling. I undulate as the nights pass, once in the clouds and the next in the dark below my bed, sweltering in the villainous weather. It stabs me in the daylight, in front of the world. But then so quickly I rise. And she spoke. It was not what you expected... no! Nor I, but the fires so quickly rose and I bit the petals. Yet what of philosophy, music, life and love? With fervor I wished to fill my mouth and my belly...

...but here I leave you, at the turn.