Something for the Soul

For lack of anything better, here's a recent piece that I've been working on. Maybe I'll make it a portion of a progression. Not entirely sure... but... its something that I've been meaning to do for qutie awhile now. Its exploratory, primarily into my own creativity and we know what that means: its overbaked a tad in abstractions and emblematics and the opening and ending refrences infold somewhat on themselves.

But, then again, what else is Verse Libre?

Ah yes, here it is. Bere with me on it, it might be a tad long for your liking:


Journeys of the Writer

You said it had been over
Before you entered here
And so you turned and strolled away—
Your mind a Cheshire Cat.
And it could have been several days ago
Had it not been memories.

So I turned another head,
Another hinge on my bed,
And traded the spice of cinnamon
For a luscious smack of thyme;
I watched the sky of Robin eggs
Slumber in a grain of sand.

Yet, time wearies spectators
So I picked up my blue fountain pen
And wrote of the goose from which it came—
A little grey thing
That swam in the lake every morning.

Ah me! The books I have read
The knowledge ingested
While I have consulted the blazing sun
Coated in his sugar-sweat—
The ancient tomes of ancient dust
That crumbled at the slightest touch.

I’ve splashed my share of ink and pen
On a thin papyrus crust
And dreamt of Egypt—Isis eyes!
The noseless Sphinx, the Phoenix skies,
And the vocal barge of baritones
Floating down the binge of tombs.

Little flakes of snow, pristine,
Melted round my thermos toes;
A little tincture of frozen pools,
The dozen lessons of sadist schools.

There were fogs that I wrote of too
All chocked up in little bottles,
And sprinkled over the twilight skies
Above the Northern Sea.
The Spermaceti danced for me
With rolling fats for fins—
Wretched, wretched limbs!

And so I did seek counsel of self
Within my endless volumes,
And all the little papers filled with blots
That lay strewn all around me:
Notes of how I’ve lived, and slept
Beneath an endless field of stars
And my soul found its purity
By lines scribbled into the moon,
A dash of lovers dreams.

The pictures formed into my mind
And sculpted their numbers there—
Yet I still remember Alice
Before she came to Wonderland

And I’m sure I would have followed her too
Had it not been a memory.

Paper Lily Says She Going to Stab Me in the Face

Check this out, to all your rap fans out there.. hahahah

Flush

Ever feel like thats your life?? See, see the waters blue... kind of like how I feel right now.

Stuff's messed up for me right now.. please guys... pray for me.

On Coffee

This is something that came to me the other day. The way I realised it was because, at my home, good coffee is a rare comodity. Sometimes you have sugar for it, sometimes you do not. The same appilies to creamer.

Ahh the joys of the EE bloc!!

I have this mug, nice shiny thing, pure creamy white in color with a ceramic handle and rim. It holds one pot of coffee in it (we use this ancient thing that brews it over the stovetop, looks like it could be used as a mechanism for a Howitzer back in the 1800's.) Anyway, one pot fits nicely into my mug which about the equivalent of a lil over 2 cups of coffee.

Right, so the thought that I got was this: According to the Charter someone is only allowed to have two cups of coffee a day, however, it does not specifically state how much a cup truly is. Therefore my cup can be considered just that--one cup. However, if I pour into actual standard cups its then no longer one but a little over two, making m not able to drink it all. Then, following that, if I drink two of those mugs a day (which I sometimes do) I'll be drinking two days worth of coffee instead of only one.

Then what happens if I make my "two cups" the equivalient of two pitchers of the brew? What would one say then if I could, technically, fit it all into two cups?

Perspective indeed... if only the Charter applied this to alchohol too.


Was that a useless thought?? Common' smile and wave darlin, we all know it to be true.

Patience

There was once a young boy in a village that wished to be a martial artist. Each day as he worked in the field he would think of it, would dream of it, and he vowed that he would make it his life’s ambition.

One day, when he was old enough, he went to the monastery where, it was rumored, there lived a great monk that was well-versed in many forms of martial arts. When he came to the inner chambers the boy stood before an old man whom, sitting upon a plain wooden chair, looked at him, nonchalantly.

“What is it you wish?” The old monk asked the boy.

“To learn to be a martial artist. Will you teach me?” was the quick reply.

The old monk looked the boy over a few times before he promptly replied, “No, I will not teach you. You have no patience” then, with that, he rose from his chair and left, leaving the boy alone in the room.

Each day, for one month, the by returned, asking the monk to teach him and, for one month the same reply was given. Finally, at the end of the month, the boy decided to ask one last time. The monk gave him the same answer and got up to leave the room, just as he had in their past encounters. The boy however, tired of the insolence of the old man in leaving him all alone, got up as well and followed him, vowing to himself the he would not leave until the monk agreed to his wishes.

Over the fields and through the valleys they walked, the monk never turning to look at the boy or talk to him, the boy following always in silence. They walked all that day until they reached the mountains and continued on into the night, walking farther and farther away from their home. They slept in the mountains that night and, even while they rested, the monk never talked to the boy, or even turned to face him.

For fifteen years they walked in such a fashion: over rivers and through forests, past deserts and through the farthest reaches of the country; always in silence, always alone, never giving a glance in acknowledgment to the other that they traveled with.

At the end of the fifteen years the boy had grown up and had become a man. His limbs were strong from the daily toil of keeping up with the monks pace; his soft body had morphed into coiled limbs. Some days past and, with time, he found himself again at his old village—though he had changed so much in appearance that none knew who he truly was anymore. The monk led him through the village and into the inner chamber of the monastery, the same chamber where the boy had come to him with his request so long ago.

When he sat down, the old monk looked up and, almost pleasantly surprised, saw the boy still standing there. “What do you wish?” He once again asked him. The boy faltered at his look, as well as at his question. For fifteen years he had followed him and never once had the monk given him any acknowledgement. There had been times when he was sick, when he was tired, when he had wished for someone to talk to him. They had gone through much together and now that they were back home, the monk wished to speak to him!

“To learn to be a martial artist.” Came the boys reply.

The monk looked at him slowly. The boy’s feet were dirty and calloused, his clothes were ragged and torn. He could see the mud and sweat upon the boy that caked his own brow, the same toils that he had shared for those fifteen years.

“Yes” came the slow reply. “I will teach you now, for now you have learned patience.”

Discourse on Family Writing

As a writer, there is alot that I hear about Family writing, particularly the HL's and the underground. I've heard alot of opinions, and talked with many people on the subject--both authors themselves, and readers alike. I've had many discussions on the subject of why the view of family reading material is really lacking in most aspects and, though the opinions are varied, alot of it can be boiled down to a few basic things.

(Note: To avoid confusion, when I say "Family reading material" or, "Family writing" I am speaking about books authored by persons within the Family itself, WS approved or otherwise. I am not speaking about Xn's, Gn's, Reflections, or the anecdotes submitted in the Activated Magazines.)

Primarily, what I have noticed that hold back Family writing is a bad outlook of what a writer really is, which stems from a sense of irresponsibility towards the craft, ignorance of the vocation of being a writer and lack of professionalism.
One of the myths about writing is that you must travel to the places your writing about in order to write about them. In truth though, you don't have to go to the place that you want to set your stories in order to write them. I'll step out on a limb and say that half of the world authors (both past and contemporary) have never actually been to those particular places before. They just study up on it first, do their research, and make sure they know what their talking about before they say it. Sad to say, most Family writers though do not do that though... I myself have been guilty upon occasion of it and honestly, I think its mainly because of preconceived ideas about the craft and just pure laziness.

Also, another reason why so very few Family writers take the time to research is because their just eager to sit down and start writing. Some might do a little research beforehand but, really, its not enough. Authors spend months--sometimes even years--researching on everything that they'll need for their story from arts and crafts, to political science, to religion, to numerology, to types of ingredients in household paint. Let's face it, we in the Family are missionaries and, because our time is therefore limited, most writers in the Family would rather sit down and write the piece to send it off to heavens library, rather then taking the research time required for a serious piece of literature. Its a very, very bad perspective of things.
Honestly, I feel that most people in the Family today think that there is little actual skill used in order to produce a piece of writing. They think that anyone can write because, after all, all your doing is slapping words down on paper. They've learned how to do that since the first grade and so they do just that; they sit down and just, "let the spirit flow" screwing all the rules, device, and anything that is needed in order to make a good piece. Its like taking a guitar and, knowing nothing about it, strumming away and thinking that it'll come to you in time.

Another myth I've commonly heard is that it takes money to learn how to write, just like it takes money to properly produce a song. Therefore, the argument is that, since family musicians can come up with decent sounding songs on shoe-string budget, Family writers can do the same because there is cash involved.
First off, let me set the record straight by telling all of you that have this notion that learning how to write is not about money. Its about time and being willing to sit down and apply yourself to your work. Its about long hours of laborious study, try-and-fail tactics, and learning what works for you and what doesn't. Some classic authors had to experiment for years before they could find their voice--something that, sadly, most family writers are not willing to commit to. There are so few that would do that, so very, very few.
Family musicians spend hours each day practicing their instruments. So should Family writers. No one in the Family music world ever got anywhere by pretending to be a musician; they applied themselves to their art and learned the ins and outs of it. They knew what they had to do in order to become good at their craft, the same should be applied to Family writing if it is ever to get anywhere.

Cersorship must be done away with, audiences and budding authors alike must shake off their fear of the unknown, the experimental, and the bizarre. People who want to take up the craft must realize that if they want to truly be writers--not scribblers--they must apply themselves, take time to study, and not believe that they can haphazardly throw down a few crummy, slushy sentences and that it'll pass as literrature. They must be willing to invest time in their work and do it with method if they truly wish to hone their skill. Once, a book took 15 years to complete; the result was Les Miserables, one of the most famous books in the history of mankind. It takes time and patience to write, something that people need to understand if they are to be serious about making anything of value at all.

Can a Family person ever hope to become good at writing? Chances are, they probably could--if they were to be honest with themselves and take the craft seriously. As of now though I only know a handful that really would do such a thing, so very sad to say.
Family writers need to study about their work and not just expect to get it all through their channel and that it'll turn out alright. As of yet, I have not read a single spirit story that was technically up to par when the author wrote it with that sort of mentality. They must stop writing things just because they think it is, "A cool idea" or that "It'll interest people" and be willing to alter--or even scrap--their ideas if that's what it takes.
Writers, look for the help of actual critics--not fawning lapdogs--to tell you what they think about your piece. People that will be honest and butcher your work to shreds, if that's what it'll take to make it good: those are the sorts of people you should show your work to before you even attempt to put it out for the public to read.

Sorry, yes, I know that this is a bit long. I could go on and on about the subject of writing because it is life to me. I'm not trying to say that I don't think it can't be done though, don't get me wrong, but I'm saying that, on the subject of Family writing, alot of things need to be changed...

"To produce a mighty work, one must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume was ever written on the flea, though many there be that have tried it."--Herman Melville