Informal Discourse on Writing

As I write now I write with a strange sort of conviction. Despite the fact that I have a deep hatred of my own handwriting, partly due to my own sloppiness and partly due to the inefficiency that writing by hand represents, I have found that there is definitely an unusual quality that handwriting has that is impossible to duplicate. I have heard a man speak of the crude destruction that writing usually entails as with carving or scratching meaning into an object; indeed, while at the time I did not hold with this philosophy, I now understand his passion.

Writing incurs an imbalance between creativity and destruction. To write, you must be assured of your own rightness, that you may conclude that your destruction was justified by the creation of something new. In a way a good writer must have a sort of god-complex. When you write you must be totally convinced that what you have to say is worth the time and energy it takes to write and read. In essence, you are saying that your violation of the natural order of things will bring about greater good.

This thought established, does it not seem then that the sharing of ideas is the counter to the social application of the laws of thermodynamics?

You Are Everybody

You are everybody,
You meet,
When you're walking
Down the street,
And they smile so sweetly.

You are everybody
You know,
But you know you're not,
Anyone
To me.

Regicide

On your knees,
Do it now,
Maybe I will spare,
An appendage.

I'm tired of you,
Your "be-good" jargon
Resounds like a pallid eructation
On my fallow ears.

Why do my senses
Lie stagnant?
Your lies have left me blind,
Though they are tasteless.

So now it's back to work,
The sun a cruel master,
And the moon,
Knows only sadness;

(A poor friend
Offers only tears.

All of life occurs,
Within boundaries.)

Yes you've beaten me,
I'll live in your world,
While you play with mine,
But still, somehow, some way, some day . . .

You'll rescind your disgust,
Your cautions disdained,
And give back my life,
The one that you've maimed,
Crippled, disjointed,
Frustrated, disappointed,
Lamed,
All so that you
Would have someone to blame,
And thus will it end,
My ardor, my pain,
And so will your words,
Your glory and fame,
Or as I know it to be,
Your goring by flame,
Not a clever pun,
But an accurate refrain,

Which I will do no longer,
Henceforth, however uncouth:
I deal only in truth.

Perhaps . . .

What if
Famine?

What if
Drought?

What if
Hunger?

What if
Doubt?

What of
People

Who scream and
Shout?

What if
Dreams?

What if
Glide?

What if
Streams?

What if
Tides?


What if . . .

What if regicide?

Logolust

This is the deepest, darkest place I have been - ever. I have frequented this wood since the days of the youngest part of my childhood. When I wanted to avoid chores, this is where I hid; when no-one else was there for me, this is where I cried; and now, now that I love my work, now that my companions love me, I come here to think.

It's not the kind of thinking you'd expect, I suppose. I'm not into deep psychological mysteries, or unlocking the secrets of the universe through philosophy. I just like to sort things out and turn them into something I can manage. It's like refrigerator magnets - life fills me up with all these different words, and they don't make sense by themselves. Sometimes I'll be eating breakfast and a word will come to me. "Justice," I'll say. "Why, that's a fine word." And then, when I'm washing my hands: "Power."

That's what it's like, all day, every day. So that's why I come here. I like to take all those words and think about them until they mean something. Now, I don't mean "mean something" like how the Indian name for the creek means "lovely daughter" or how "neo" is the Latin word for "new." Those things are fine, but I don't want to just know what the words mean, I want to feel what they mean.

The problem is, most words don't mean much by themselves. I mean, who cares what Webster says about glaciers or monkeys or houses or shirtsleeves? I want to know how all those words fit together. I figure that that's the only way I'll ever understand how this world works. Still, it's not easy.

It helps sometimes if I write them down, so's I can remember. After all, if I feel a connection between those words, it'd be foolish to forget it. That's why I come here.

When I was young I loved the sunny glades and effervescent brooks, the beautiful flowers and the glorious trees, the happiest, most carefree parts of the forest: these were my home. I still love those places, but they aren't so good for thinking. At least, not for the kind of thinking I do.

That's why I go deeper now, deeper into the forest. I have abandoned the cheerful stream for the stagnant pond, and those wonderful flowers for moody ferns. I have done this because in apathy there is peace. The young trees of the forest are too full of vigor, too full of uncontrollable emotions to really appreciate life. When I am among the most sedate of the ancient oaks, there do I feel secure.

I don't know why I'm writing this all down, except that I know that these words are all flowing into my head at once, and I gotta' do something. It hurts, it hurts a lot when the words don't make sense. It's like thousands of needles, all pricking into your head at once. You've gotta' take a needle and thread it through the cloth: then, slowly, forgivingly, all the others will fall into line, weaving a most incredible, intricate tapestry of paper and ink. And paper and ink is just different words for flesh and bone. True, that's not what they mean, but that's what they feel like.

I would know, I think about these things.

Tera

It's like raining,
On a sunny day,
When the sky is alright,
But your heart is all gray,
And the trees move with,
Your legs as they sway,

That's what it's like with Tera.

When her eyes see,
The worlds you describe,
And she laughs,
And you hear,
The outgoing tide,
When your mind is at ease,
Though your heart will not rest.

That's what it's like with Tera.

When you run in the sand,
And the soles of your feet,
Are dirty and brown,
When the two of you meet,
And two lives are like one,
'Neath the gaze of the sun,

That's what it's like with Tera.

They say that her mind,
Open,
Loving,
And fair,
Is so open it needs,
To be closed for repair,
But that's what it's like,
When you are without need,
Except the need for her love,
Desiring a friend,
Amending the deep of your soul.

That's who you trust,

That's when you care,

That's what it's like with Tera.

Human Understanding

Caiphus: How do I fully begin to understand?

Moralam: To understand anything you must first think, for thought is the foundation in which the pillars of knowledge are cemented. Knowledge without thought is hearsay; furthermore, it is a heresy.

Caiphus: So thought is the key to understanding?

Moralam: True understanding also requires experience. Experience is the crowning glory of knowledge, it is an impenetrable shield. What tribute to the gods is a temple with a leaky roof? Truly experience is that roof.

Caiphus: Then sensation and intellect are inextricably intertwined.

Moralam: Yes. There is another aspect of this relationship, which is the presence of feeling. Empathy is the beautiful story of life that is carved into the temple walls, it is the wonderful beautification of homely knowledge, transforming it into something aesthetically pleasing. Emotions are key to the truest understanding, for knowledge in and of itself is like a great fortress with no warriors. Without passion we are dead in life, loveless we bear our soul's coffin, and logic is but an effervescent machine - active, efficient, but without desire.

The Bender

What would we do,
If the stars were our guide,
And we knew all we needed,
To know?

Of ourselves,
We'd be free,
Together we'd see,
That it's not who you are,
But what you can be.

Is potential the only,
Road to survival,
Or is there more to life,
Than accepting your rival,
As friend?

Absolute,
Subjective,
Intrinsic,
Collective,
Superfluous,
Rejected.

Can anybody see her,
When she's out there in the cold?

When she runs and hides,
And cries,
In the throes of loss?

She knows . . .

The only time worth spending,
Is time not wasted waiting.

Secular Spirituality

Caiphus: What is secularity?

Moralam: An illusion.

What?

Where do we
Go.

Expect.

Aspect.

What is the ratio of
A heart in love?

"Fourteen and twelve"
He called.

Wrong,
It is fourteen and three.

I hate to fail a brilliant mind,
But he has clearly
Never loved

No.

It Suits You

It is simple,
It is sweet,
When we wipe the dust from our feet,
And sweat from our face,
When we engage,
In terrified embrace.

Only an idiot,
Would die twice the same,
And yet here you are,
Smiling and lame.

I have nothing more to say,
So just
Stay,
That way.

If the boot fits,
Then take a hike.

Lost Eyes, Lovely Eyes

Without support a leader falls,

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

Only silent do we differ,
When clamoring we're all the same,
Just noise, just dust,
Only dust in his eyes.

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

United we are lost again,
Each one, alone,
This is the plan,
United we will die again,
Though once it served us well.

Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

I look into your smile,
I am dazzled by your grin,
It only hides,
Your sin.

Not mine.
I still see mine in your eyes,
Lost eyes, lovely eyes.

Jihad United

Frosted mountain filled with cheer,
Dwarven men meet often here,

Exhibit each, their deadly prize,
Before another's greedy eyes,

Gladly one will pay each price,
Illegal goods an exotic spice,

Within, without,
With silent doubt,
Marauders creep and sign,

Communicate,
The mountain's fate,
Through the darkness grim.
Many men will lose their lives,
To rid the earth of sin.

One, not one, regrets their choice,
As they scream out with one voice,

And leap, at last, into the fray.

Burning Shadows (Chapter 9)

“So Dagon isn’t officially in charge here?”

“No,” Vertigo replied, “but he’s taken over with incredible ease, even though he only has ten guards at the most.” Notek’s visage clouded over.

“Then why can’t you all free yourselves? He’d be no match for the students here if they chose to rise up against him simultaneously.” Vertigo looked away from Notek, unable to return his gaze. “Verti,” Notek said as he gently took her hand. “What are you not telling me?” Vertigo’s head sagged, and as she relayed her story she could not stop her tears.

“There was an uprising almost immediately . . . every student that had trained in hand-to-hand fighting and those few teachers who possessed weapons rallied together and tried to repel Dagon and his men.” She sobbed. “They were slaughtered. Everyone that offered resistance was mercilessly destroyed. Notek . . . he’s more powerful than you can imagine.” With vengeance burned onto his face, Notek stood.

“I must go,” he seethed. “I’ll bring help, and together we will repel this evil.” Vertigo stood and took hold of his shoulders.

“Please don’t leave me here Notek . . . please . . . not again.” The light that invaded the room was dimming, and Notek remembered Dagon’s threat as he brushed Vertigo off.

“I have to hurry, it will be dark soon.” He looked her straight in the eye. “You’ll be safe . . . I promise.”

“Notek,” Vertigo said, anger boiling the tears in her eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”