I've always found it fascinating on how attached people get to inanimate objects. For example: my old laptop, which is currently sitting next to on my bed, refuses to display any colours other than fluro pink and green and it will usually lock me out or freeze after about half an hour of use. In other words: It no longer works as it is supposed to. Yet even though I now have a perfectly good new laptop and it now has everything that was on my old laptop on it I know that it will be a while before I can bring myself to get rid of it.
Pretty much every post that has been written for this blog so far was written on it. Pretty much every story. I watched the little 'writing' folder on my desktop go from a small smattering of stuff to a collection several hundred documents that contain completed stories, attempted stories, edits, ideas, outlines, ideas, words I liked the sound of, sentences I liked the look of and even a few attempts at drawing up physical quasi-geographical maps for some of my earliest story ideas.
Ultimately, it's not all that much compared to what it might become if I want to take this seriously, but its a start and its a hell of a lot more than what I started off with - and browsing through it, even if a lot of it isn't very good, makes me feel something that borders on pride. As I associated all that work with my old laptop I get that feeling when I look at it now, even though it is broken, so I very well might keep it.
Weird.
Anyway, as you may have noticed, OBLOGOTORY, is back and I am happy to say that I have several stories on the go at the moment (not to mention a decent amount of free time on my hands) so updates should be both varied and plentiful (Also there will be no more poetry for the foreseeable future as I feel as if I've subjected you to enough).
To start us of I thought I might trot out the first bit of something new, which I am going to tell you nothing about until the plot reaches a certain point for reasons that will hopefully become clear.
The Life and death of Alistair Grout
The sun rises. The sun sets.
For Alistair Grout it is all the same and each day the whole world passes him by in a haze.
He doesn't care.
He doesn't even notice.
But sometimes things change.
For the third time in a week he finds himself in a bar: one that he has been to many times before. He sits. He drinks. He ignores the people around him and those that pass him by and for the most part they ignore him right back.
He likes it that way. It lets him wallow without having to remember exactly what it is that he is wallowing about. Lets him feel like he is surrounded by people when he really feels alone.
Light pulses and people dance. The heavy roll of the bass washes over him and dulls his already drunken mind. It keeps him distracted, keeps him occupied. Helps him forget. Each night it is the same, and each night it is just enough: The world becomes a dizzy smear as he drinks until he no longer has any idea where he is, who he is, and what he has done.
Each night is an escape, and each he prays that the next one will see one of the more wretched parts of the city swallow him up and then never spit him out and that will be the end of everything.
He knows that he does not have the courage to do it himself.
But each night it is the same. He he sits, he drinks, he forgets and then in the morning he wakes, in the gutter, or his hotel room, but still here, exhausted and feeling worse than he did before. Eventually he will sober up completely and the whole world will come rushing back in.
He knows that it can't go on forever: Sooner or later his money will run and and he will have to stop. He wonders how much damaged he will be able to do to himself before that happens. Wonders if he can numb himself completely to everyone and everything before he has to go home to face up to what he has done.
He shudders at the thought each time and then quickly downs another drink.
Things normally have a habit of progressing from there.
Normally.
Tonight something is different.
He sits at the bar. He drinks. All around him people writhe to the pounding music. He finds it hard to dislocate from it all and the drink sits heavy in his belly and does nothing.
He can feel someone watching him. A cold fire slithers down his fire and then tweaks at his ribs as he slowly shifts so that he is facing the other way.
Gradually he begins to feel warm again and the drink hits him all at once. After a while he finds himself chuckling to no-one in particular. The bartender gives him an odd look – pours another, takes his money – and then moves on, his face returning to his earlier look of quiet despair. Probably just another young person drawn to all the glitz and glamour. Thinking to try their hand at acting, hoping that they can break into fame and fortune. Ending up tending bar, for others like him, just so he can pay the bills. He snorts – more odd looks – he wonders drunkenly if he should give the whole acting thing ago? After all, he doesn't really need to go home. Not really. Maybe he could see the world, just like he had wanted to when he was young. He wonders and twists the wedding band around his finger as he wonders. He could just disappear. Take a different name. Find something new. He would miss the girls of course – but, he realised, not enough to justify going back home. Not that he would get to see them much once what he had done got out. Their mother would see to that.
From somewhere within him something seems to come loose and starts to rattle around around, the sound erupts from his mouth as another strained laugh that, louder this time, draws still more looks from the people around him, looks that largely spoke of disgust and disdain – a curl to the lip and a slanted brow that seem to say: “What the fuck is a guy like this doing here”.
He motions for another drink, swaying in his stool. The bartender looks at him as if he has just crawled out from one of the bar stools and tells him what Alistair can only assume is something along the lines of “You've had enough. You're disturbing the other customers. Fuck off.”
He grins at the barman and holds what is left of his drink up to the light - he isn't even sure what it is – he throws it back and then tosses the empty glass casually over his shoulder. The bartender roars at him noiselessly, his words lost amongst the music and making his movements seem exaggerated and almost comical. Alistair laughs, it's like a pantomime show. Obviously the bartenders gestures attract some attention however as seconds later a hand clamps down on his shoulder and he is unceremoniously dragged from the bar by one of the more ugly bouncers he has ever seen and then thrown out onto the street, where the bouncer delivers a sharp blow to Alistair's stomach that leaves him him on his knees, coughing and retching.
The bouncer pulls him to his feet and looks him over hard eyes, only slightly dulled by boredom, his voice rolls grates like gravel being rubbed together, “Be smart mate. Don't come back here again”, he punches Alistair again for good measure, his stomach heaves. The bouncer spits and turns to go.
It takes him a while to catch his breath and for the cloud of alcohol to seep back over his mind. Eventually he stumbles down the street and into a looks ridiculously similar to the one in which he had just been. He slips into a booth near the door and orders another drink.
The night wears on.
Much later he finds himself staring blankly at his watch as he slowly begins to sober up, then again and again. Each time he finds himself unsure if he has progressed from being curious about the time, to actually reading the thing, or if he has and just keeps forgetting what it said after he looked away. Around him things are beginning to wind down. The crowd has grown sparser and the dancing more awkward as people slowly begin to sober up and realise either that they can't dance in the first place, or that they are absolutely exhausted. Mostly of the time it is both.
Someone laughs in the booth behind him. A woman. He almost finds himself laughing with her, before he catches himself. Someone else says something to her and she laughs again. He suddenly is struck by something in her voice. Something familiar. He swaps from one side of the booth to the other and surreptitiously glances over the seat in which he had been sitting . The woman, talking with one of the bar staff as he refills her drink, laughs again. He looks at her puzzled, he has never seen her before. She looks up at him, as he shrugs and switches back to his original seat. He waves for another drink as another staff member moves away from the bar.
Behind him the woman is talking now and unconsciously he finds himself trying to hear what she is saying. Maybe she was just in bars all the time? Maybe she had been in the one he had been thrown out of? He snorts and tries to push her voice out of his mind. He doesn't want to think about women. He was done thinking about women. He grimaces at that and then a wave of self disgust rises in his throat like bile. He must be sobering up. He looks at his glass, empty – he doesn't even remember drinking it. He moves to order another only to find someone holding one out to him.
“Here”
He looks up. The woman has moved from her table and is now standing in front of him with a glass in each hand. Again she offers one to him. He looks at her, slightly confused, and is taken aback by how young she is. Gorgeous, but very young. He feels old just looking at her.
“You're supposed to take one.” Her grin touches her eyes, the light from the bar makes them look much paler than they should be. He apologises and takes the glass with a sweaty hand, all the while wondering to himself how long it had been since a woman bought him a drink. He honestly couldn't remember.
She smiles again and motions towards the drink. Lost in thought he has not touched it yet.
“Try it” she says, and takes a sip of her own “see if you like it”. He raises the glass to his mouth and she place her hand on his leg and whispers in his ear, “it's my favourite. I get it all the time.”
He nods dumbly and drinks and then world disappears into darkness with a dull roar.
He tries to pull his mind back together. There is touch and sound but they are somehow muffled and distant. He tastes something in the back of his throat and a hammer of ecstasy beats down upon him and turns him inside out. He feels as if a fire has been kindled in his mouth. It burns at him, hollows him out. The fog of the earlier alcohol is slowly leached out of him and he feels shockingly alive but somehow ill at the same time. A hot weight presses down upon his chest and he struggles to breathe as the feeling suddenly quickens and becomes even more profound. It spreads through out his body. Burning hotter and faster. Each second seems to drag by both pleasure and pain in equal measure until he feels as if he cannot take it for a second longer.
He feels her hand on his arm and he comes crashing back to reality. She looks at him coolly, as if studying him. He finds himself suddenly afraid, “what did you put in this?” His voice stumbles over each word. He tries to stand, fails and looks at her confused.
In response she sits down opposite him and leans towards him.
Her voice purrs and she gives him a wicked smile, “Why? Did you like it?”
Alistair swallows and looks back down at the glass, he feels a need growing deep down inside him, stronger than anything he was ever felt in his life. She moves closer. As if hypnotised he moves closer to her as well. Her lips press against his ear again,
“You looked sad.” She croons, “I thought it would cheer you up.” He can feel her smile again. “Have another taste.”
He tries to move away, but again nothing happens. His hand moves toward the glass of its own accord. Picks it up. She whispers something he cannot understand and his brain feels like it has begun to boil. His hand shakes and then in an instant he downs the entire glass and then the whole world seems to fall away again, bit by bit, piece by piece, until only her face and a searing emptiness is his veins remained.
Too be continued.
All right, that's it for the moment, feedback and stuff are appreciated as per usual. The next part should be up within a few days as it's mostly done, but just needs some tweaking and maybe some additions.
Until then.
M
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Brief Hiatus
Well I've been absent for a while, which kinda sucks, and it looks like I'll be absent for a little while longer, which sucks even more.
The primary (and really only) reason for this is that my laptop is completely fucked and it's rather hard to get any decent writing done without it.
So, long story short, it looks like the I won't be posting anything for a little while longer - or at least until I get my hands on a new computer thingy (which hopefully should be soonish - money being the major issue).
On the positive side, however, I will have plenty of material to run with once I do get everything up and running again as I've been working on several things lately that I would very much like to finish and put up.
Until next time,
M
The primary (and really only) reason for this is that my laptop is completely fucked and it's rather hard to get any decent writing done without it.
So, long story short, it looks like the I won't be posting anything for a little while longer - or at least until I get my hands on a new computer thingy (which hopefully should be soonish - money being the major issue).
On the positive side, however, I will have plenty of material to run with once I do get everything up and running again as I've been working on several things lately that I would very much like to finish and put up.
Until next time,
M
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Up against the wall
Damn I hate writers block.
I've been trying to ease myself back into writing non-poetic stuff over the last little bit and it's taken a little while for things to jell properly so I'm afraid you will have to wait a little bit for a new short story. For the moment however I still have some unused poetry sitting around so you can have a read of that while you're waiting.
Freyja
Dear Freyja,
old Edda told of thee
of withered hand
and feathered cloak
long moulted
and throne away.
Do you shiver,
dear Freyja?
With shoulders bare
and alters empty?
With hair cast off,
to wither in the soil?
Do you hate,
dear Freyja?
at the lovely maid,
or the virgin thief?
Who took from you,
all once you had?
Or are you proud,
dear Freyja?
A queen amongst
a special few?
Who still holds court,
clipped wings or no?
My dear Freya,
old Edda told of thee.
Of healing touch,
of red and gold.
a midnight queen,
a pretty lass.
A missing god,
long gone,
made new,
and people ask,
with open arms:
who now holds you?
Not really sure what I think of this one now that I'm reading it a bit after writing. The original idea came about while I was poking through an old essay I wrote on the archetype of the trickster in ancient mythology (one of the examples I used was Loki, which led to reading up on some mythological Norse poetry, which somehow lead to Freyja) and I seem to have got the idea I was aiming at across, but I think it still needs one or two alterations.
Anywho, have a read and comment etc etc.
Will have a short story up in a bit. Maybe even a nice little picture to go with it.
M.
I've been trying to ease myself back into writing non-poetic stuff over the last little bit and it's taken a little while for things to jell properly so I'm afraid you will have to wait a little bit for a new short story. For the moment however I still have some unused poetry sitting around so you can have a read of that while you're waiting.
Freyja
Dear Freyja,
old Edda told of thee
of withered hand
and feathered cloak
long moulted
and throne away.
Do you shiver,
dear Freyja?
With shoulders bare
and alters empty?
With hair cast off,
to wither in the soil?
Do you hate,
dear Freyja?
at the lovely maid,
or the virgin thief?
Who took from you,
all once you had?
Or are you proud,
dear Freyja?
A queen amongst
a special few?
Who still holds court,
clipped wings or no?
My dear Freya,
old Edda told of thee.
Of healing touch,
of red and gold.
a midnight queen,
a pretty lass.
A missing god,
long gone,
made new,
and people ask,
with open arms:
who now holds you?
Not really sure what I think of this one now that I'm reading it a bit after writing. The original idea came about while I was poking through an old essay I wrote on the archetype of the trickster in ancient mythology (one of the examples I used was Loki, which led to reading up on some mythological Norse poetry, which somehow lead to Freyja) and I seem to have got the idea I was aiming at across, but I think it still needs one or two alterations.
Anywho, have a read and comment etc etc.
Will have a short story up in a bit. Maybe even a nice little picture to go with it.
M.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Done and Dusted
Phew!
It took some doing but I've finally finished up with all of the major essays and assignments for the semester, and technically, barring one last exam, that means that I've essentially finished my degree as well.
Wow that went fast.
I feel like I should say something momentous to cap the whole thing off, but to be honest I don't think the whole finishing uni thing has quite dawned on me yet, so maybe I'll save that for after my last exam.
Still it's been an interesting semester and in terms of writing I think the blog as come along a little bit. I've learnt a couple of new things, and I think I've managed to open myself up to and gain interest in new forms of writing. Which can only be a good thing, otherwise I'm just going to be beating the same cat against the wall time and again and everyone, including me, is just going to get bored.
From time to time new stuff might include poetry, I ended up liking the unit I did on it a little more than I expected, though at the moment I'm still sort of digesting what it is that I got out of it, as pretty much all I can say for sure at the moment is that poetry as a medium of expression is a mess. A crazy, glorious mess where no one can agree on anything. This particularly applies on what is 'good' poetry and what is 'bad' poetry: everything has context and everybody seems to like different things - I can, for example, say rather comfortably that some of the stuff I read this semester was fantastic (the sort of thing you wish you that thought of first) while other stuff was horribly horribly bad (the sort of stuff that makes you squirm and then light yourself on fire) but I can only say that for me. Anyone else I would just have to tell them to read it and make up their own mind.
Where my own stuff fits in I have no idea (either in my scale or in other peoples - i'm hoping for somewhere in the middle), but I've had fun writing it so far so I may as well keep at it and see what happens.
That said, I've also done some editing on a couple of pieces that I've already put up and I did say that editing needed to become a bigger part of the blog, so here:
The Tree (v.2)
The wind blows uphill then wanders down
whispering promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s hold decay.
Bare branches spread like hands,
while roots tremble and crack below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.
Rain comes, scatters like string, held
taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Voiceless I whisper to my children,
as they lie upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.
I dance in the wind as the sun returns,
Young growth basking in its lazy glow.
Leaves unfasten and seeds uncoil;
to tremble in the heady breeze.
Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.
But like all good things it does not last,
My children slowly crack and fade.
Dead leaves form a broken crown,
A memorial to what once had been.
I shake like beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and naked in the autumn breeze.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
My branches groan as the cold seeps in.
The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
A neon glow that cuts the sky.
A static bolt, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me and casts me on ground.
I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
That writhes and turns as sap turns ash
and climbs as vapour into the sky.
The rains roll back, flames hiss. Too late.
I am broken and burnt; disembowelled.
With no hope of healing I give in. I am done.
The new snows bury me. A folded blanket under which to sleep.
When the next spring comes I barely wake,
Anchored only by the bits not black and burnt.
The snow melts and digs me up, both living bits and dead,
I feel as if a skeleton, all blunt and tamed.
Time passes. I spend it most in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. None is mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant buzz.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.
They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
They calmly take to me and those around.
I feel distant fear, I shake and shudder
at the sudden force, the biting axe.
Rough hands break me down
and say I'll find some use. Perhaps a chair or table?
Something polished and refined.
I know it won’t be me.
Anywho, got plenty of time to kill now so new posts should be coming thick and fast - with plenty of new stuff to kick around.
Till then,
M
It took some doing but I've finally finished up with all of the major essays and assignments for the semester, and technically, barring one last exam, that means that I've essentially finished my degree as well.
Wow that went fast.
I feel like I should say something momentous to cap the whole thing off, but to be honest I don't think the whole finishing uni thing has quite dawned on me yet, so maybe I'll save that for after my last exam.
Still it's been an interesting semester and in terms of writing I think the blog as come along a little bit. I've learnt a couple of new things, and I think I've managed to open myself up to and gain interest in new forms of writing. Which can only be a good thing, otherwise I'm just going to be beating the same cat against the wall time and again and everyone, including me, is just going to get bored.
From time to time new stuff might include poetry, I ended up liking the unit I did on it a little more than I expected, though at the moment I'm still sort of digesting what it is that I got out of it, as pretty much all I can say for sure at the moment is that poetry as a medium of expression is a mess. A crazy, glorious mess where no one can agree on anything. This particularly applies on what is 'good' poetry and what is 'bad' poetry: everything has context and everybody seems to like different things - I can, for example, say rather comfortably that some of the stuff I read this semester was fantastic (the sort of thing you wish you that thought of first) while other stuff was horribly horribly bad (the sort of stuff that makes you squirm and then light yourself on fire) but I can only say that for me. Anyone else I would just have to tell them to read it and make up their own mind.
Where my own stuff fits in I have no idea (either in my scale or in other peoples - i'm hoping for somewhere in the middle), but I've had fun writing it so far so I may as well keep at it and see what happens.
That said, I've also done some editing on a couple of pieces that I've already put up and I did say that editing needed to become a bigger part of the blog, so here:
The Tree (v.2)
The wind blows uphill then wanders down
whispering promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s hold decay.
Bare branches spread like hands,
while roots tremble and crack below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.
Rain comes, scatters like string, held
taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Voiceless I whisper to my children,
as they lie upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.
I dance in the wind as the sun returns,
Young growth basking in its lazy glow.
Leaves unfasten and seeds uncoil;
to tremble in the heady breeze.
Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.
But like all good things it does not last,
My children slowly crack and fade.
Dead leaves form a broken crown,
A memorial to what once had been.
I shake like beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and naked in the autumn breeze.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
My branches groan as the cold seeps in.
The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
A neon glow that cuts the sky.
A static bolt, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me and casts me on ground.
I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
That writhes and turns as sap turns ash
and climbs as vapour into the sky.
The rains roll back, flames hiss. Too late.
I am broken and burnt; disembowelled.
With no hope of healing I give in. I am done.
The new snows bury me. A folded blanket under which to sleep.
When the next spring comes I barely wake,
Anchored only by the bits not black and burnt.
The snow melts and digs me up, both living bits and dead,
I feel as if a skeleton, all blunt and tamed.
Time passes. I spend it most in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. None is mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant buzz.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.
They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
They calmly take to me and those around.
I feel distant fear, I shake and shudder
at the sudden force, the biting axe.
Rough hands break me down
and say I'll find some use. Perhaps a chair or table?
Something polished and refined.
I know it won’t be me.
Anywho, got plenty of time to kill now so new posts should be coming thick and fast - with plenty of new stuff to kick around.
Till then,
M
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Darkest before the Dawn.
Phew, uni is really starting to heat up so my posting may be a little erratic over the next few weeks - but I've been enjoying writing and posting stuff so much lately that I'll be damned if I let the blog fall to the wayside, even if I end up posting edits of pieces that I have put up before (I will have to do this for one of my assessments anyway so it seems rather logical, not to mention the fact that I said edited versions would one day become part of the work that I post).
Lucky for you however, I have one new piece for you to read before we get to editing. Unluckily however this piece was, once again, written in response to Maldoror (don't worry though, this is the last one that I wrote - the assignment they were for only asked for three) so it has some similarities to 'The Executioner' (more so than to 'The Beast', as it is definitely the least surreal of the three).
Anyway, I'm running rather low on sleep, so before I write too much here is -
The New Man
From the beginning I only sought to survive. I had tried all that I could think of, all that would keep me from what I would later come to so enjoy. Tried and failed, as there came a day that I could no longer bare it, on the day when I was sick of having no coin in my pocket, or food in my belly, I took to the streets, a rough cudgel held tight in my hand.
The first one was wealthy. I caught him in the night as he stumbled his way from one tavern to another, his pockets full of the tinkling of tiny bells. I preyed upon his weakness: The drink had made him slow, had made him trusting. I walked with him, I placed my hand about his shoulders and joined in his bawdy songs. We laughed and smiled like old friends and then, once the streets had fully emptied, I gave him a smart rap behind the ear and dragged him away from the street so that I could pick his pockets clean.
This first time I had not meant to kill, simply to take and go, but no matter how hard he may have tried, the first forgot how to breathe and never again did open his eyes. Leaving him where he lay I would not find this out until morning, until I heard the whispers on the streets. I returned to the scene, to find a crowd huddled round the gaping mouth of the alley where I had left the man that had now spat him back out into the world.
The people muttered to each other, asking 'what it was the world was coming to'. Walking among them I felt sure that I would be discovered, that some errant look on my face would give it all away. I felt the man's money grow heavy in my pocket. I felt myself grow still, waiting for the cries of discovery.
I waited for nothing. Constables came and dragged the man away without a backward glance and then, slowly, the crowd too dispersed. To my surprise it was in this moment that I came to know true joy. True delight. I had bested another human being in truest way that I have yet been able to discern. I had deprived him of both his money and his life, without a single repercussion or the slightest chance for him to seek revenge or a repeat of our competition.
From that moment onwards a new knowledge burned in my brain. I saw now how the world should be: absent of the clutter of rule and law or good and evil, where life and death were decided by ones ability, by their strength and cunning.
There would be many after the first. I found I could not stop. Each night I stalked the deepest darkness of the streets, each night I would catch a new victim in my web and then we would compete. I made a mockery of the qualities so valued by society and hoped that one day they would realise that wealth and beauty and piety were as nothing, if one could not hold onto them.
But they did not seem to learn and it became all too easy. I craved a challenge, craved someone who might best me. Each night the city heaved more violently under my feet. Fear began to choke the streets as people cowered, knowing that there was something out there that hunted them. I revelled in it and slowly came to realise that if there was no-one out there who was worthy, with a will as strong as mine, then maybe I could create them.
Very quickly was I drawn to a young officer in the constabulary. A family man. With verve and principle. A staunch follower of his laws and codes. I left him letters, I left him notes: always mocking, always hinting. We became opponents, even if he did not know it. Many times I would let him think that he was close to catching me, and then I would pull it all away.
I watched as he slowly lost himself to his frustration and began to cast of the bonds that society had given him. That he had given himself. He became violent and reckless in his investigations. Quick to anger, quick to follow through. I sculpted him into a new man.
Eventually the time came when I knew he was close to breaking. Knew he was close to casting it all away so that he run out onto the streets and hunt me like I hunted others. He teetered at the edge of the abyss, only needing a single, small, push...
I took his family.
His grief was brilliant. His rage startling. He wept and swore, hammering at walls and leaving bloody smears. He called for me. Told me of his hate, of what he would do once he found me. I drank it in, savoured it, and then, when I was full I let him know where he could find me.
We met in the deepest pools of shadow that hung between the streets. His eyes flashed hatred, from his throat he let loose a animal snarl. At that moment I new rapture. Finally! Here was a man who was worthy! A challenge! I laughed with glee. We threw ourselves at each other like beasts.
For an eternity we fought. Trading bites and blows in equal measure. We rolled upon the ground. , trashing violently, carelessly, mindlessly.
In the end I saw my mistake. I had driven him to far. Given him too much. Now his fury outstripped my own. He gained leverage, his hands snaking around my neck. Squeezing. In the last few moments of my life I knew fear once, but very quickly it was replaced by pride. I had set my own rules and now I would lose by them. Lose to my own creation. As the last whispers of air left my lungs and the world reduced to pinprick lights, I felt that there was a small matter of satisfaction in that.
Alright, might be a little bit before the next original one (I'll see what I can squeeze in between essays) but I should update again soon with an edited version of one of the last few works that I put up - probably 'The Tree' as I've got some good feedback on that and I am now of the opinion that it is in need of some heavy trimming (horrible pun intended) as I (and this is something that I will admit as it bothered me at the time) let trying to fit it into a vaguely uniform syllabic structure get in the way of writing what I wanted to write.
M.
Lucky for you however, I have one new piece for you to read before we get to editing. Unluckily however this piece was, once again, written in response to Maldoror (don't worry though, this is the last one that I wrote - the assignment they were for only asked for three) so it has some similarities to 'The Executioner' (more so than to 'The Beast', as it is definitely the least surreal of the three).
Anyway, I'm running rather low on sleep, so before I write too much here is -
The New Man
From the beginning I only sought to survive. I had tried all that I could think of, all that would keep me from what I would later come to so enjoy. Tried and failed, as there came a day that I could no longer bare it, on the day when I was sick of having no coin in my pocket, or food in my belly, I took to the streets, a rough cudgel held tight in my hand.
The first one was wealthy. I caught him in the night as he stumbled his way from one tavern to another, his pockets full of the tinkling of tiny bells. I preyed upon his weakness: The drink had made him slow, had made him trusting. I walked with him, I placed my hand about his shoulders and joined in his bawdy songs. We laughed and smiled like old friends and then, once the streets had fully emptied, I gave him a smart rap behind the ear and dragged him away from the street so that I could pick his pockets clean.
This first time I had not meant to kill, simply to take and go, but no matter how hard he may have tried, the first forgot how to breathe and never again did open his eyes. Leaving him where he lay I would not find this out until morning, until I heard the whispers on the streets. I returned to the scene, to find a crowd huddled round the gaping mouth of the alley where I had left the man that had now spat him back out into the world.
The people muttered to each other, asking 'what it was the world was coming to'. Walking among them I felt sure that I would be discovered, that some errant look on my face would give it all away. I felt the man's money grow heavy in my pocket. I felt myself grow still, waiting for the cries of discovery.
I waited for nothing. Constables came and dragged the man away without a backward glance and then, slowly, the crowd too dispersed. To my surprise it was in this moment that I came to know true joy. True delight. I had bested another human being in truest way that I have yet been able to discern. I had deprived him of both his money and his life, without a single repercussion or the slightest chance for him to seek revenge or a repeat of our competition.
From that moment onwards a new knowledge burned in my brain. I saw now how the world should be: absent of the clutter of rule and law or good and evil, where life and death were decided by ones ability, by their strength and cunning.
There would be many after the first. I found I could not stop. Each night I stalked the deepest darkness of the streets, each night I would catch a new victim in my web and then we would compete. I made a mockery of the qualities so valued by society and hoped that one day they would realise that wealth and beauty and piety were as nothing, if one could not hold onto them.
But they did not seem to learn and it became all too easy. I craved a challenge, craved someone who might best me. Each night the city heaved more violently under my feet. Fear began to choke the streets as people cowered, knowing that there was something out there that hunted them. I revelled in it and slowly came to realise that if there was no-one out there who was worthy, with a will as strong as mine, then maybe I could create them.
Very quickly was I drawn to a young officer in the constabulary. A family man. With verve and principle. A staunch follower of his laws and codes. I left him letters, I left him notes: always mocking, always hinting. We became opponents, even if he did not know it. Many times I would let him think that he was close to catching me, and then I would pull it all away.
I watched as he slowly lost himself to his frustration and began to cast of the bonds that society had given him. That he had given himself. He became violent and reckless in his investigations. Quick to anger, quick to follow through. I sculpted him into a new man.
Eventually the time came when I knew he was close to breaking. Knew he was close to casting it all away so that he run out onto the streets and hunt me like I hunted others. He teetered at the edge of the abyss, only needing a single, small, push...
I took his family.
His grief was brilliant. His rage startling. He wept and swore, hammering at walls and leaving bloody smears. He called for me. Told me of his hate, of what he would do once he found me. I drank it in, savoured it, and then, when I was full I let him know where he could find me.
We met in the deepest pools of shadow that hung between the streets. His eyes flashed hatred, from his throat he let loose a animal snarl. At that moment I new rapture. Finally! Here was a man who was worthy! A challenge! I laughed with glee. We threw ourselves at each other like beasts.
For an eternity we fought. Trading bites and blows in equal measure. We rolled upon the ground. , trashing violently, carelessly, mindlessly.
In the end I saw my mistake. I had driven him to far. Given him too much. Now his fury outstripped my own. He gained leverage, his hands snaking around my neck. Squeezing. In the last few moments of my life I knew fear once, but very quickly it was replaced by pride. I had set my own rules and now I would lose by them. Lose to my own creation. As the last whispers of air left my lungs and the world reduced to pinprick lights, I felt that there was a small matter of satisfaction in that.
Alright, might be a little bit before the next original one (I'll see what I can squeeze in between essays) but I should update again soon with an edited version of one of the last few works that I put up - probably 'The Tree' as I've got some good feedback on that and I am now of the opinion that it is in need of some heavy trimming (horrible pun intended) as I (and this is something that I will admit as it bothered me at the time) let trying to fit it into a vaguely uniform syllabic structure get in the way of writing what I wanted to write.
M.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Beast
The human imagination is an amazing thing and so it is often incredibly interesting to mentally chart the stages in the development of a story, both during the period in which it only exists in your head and during the time that you actually begin to get it all down on paper. Even when a story is inspired in part or completely by another, new ideas can take you in rather unique directions, leaving the resulting story with subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) references to other stories and concepts. - A mishmash of ideas if you will - Something that seems to fit in nicely with that old adage 'there are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt,' that is if you believe in that sort of stuff (frankly I think there are plenty of new ideas, although I'm not sure I could lay claim to any in my writing).
Anyway, that sort of leads me into the story that I've got for you today - like 'The Executioner' it was written in response to Maldoror, but as you will see it is rather different, for while some of the key themes from Maldoror are still there (though not necessarily the same as those that were focused on 'Executioner'),there is a much greater emphasis on the surreal and it also contains (I think) much more in the way of conceptual imagery.
Still, I don't won’t to do too much deconstruction before you've read the damn thing, so here it is:
The Beast
Far beyond the time of man is a place where nothing lives and nothing dies. High above the sky lies blank as canvas that every now and again billows as the cold wind pushes itself across the bitter swelling of the sea, so stained by those that came before. Their remains now twisted into some cruel bower that lies just beyond the shore, a reef of bleached bodies and broken limbs. Devoid of thought and memory.
Rotted ice takes the place of continents, withered into thin lines and jagged edges: a scattering of glass upon a stagnant pond. A broken chandelier in a bathtub. Some contain the bones of buildings, marked by soot and ash, while others cradle themselves around the fallen branches of the great tree.
The old roots still hang from above, ever ignorant of gravity, they are held up by their own weight but no longer grow. Here nothing lives and nothing dies. They are wilted and scarred from an age of misuse, the bark long ago stripped away to expose once tender flesh to ripping and tearing of claws and gnashing teeth.
This is the work of the beast:
The last whole thing with a half a mind, it circles through the seas. Heaving through the bitter shallows to blink and sniff at a world that it no longer understands. For the beast looks but it does not see, it stares out upon the
endless sea with empty eyes, with sockets scooped out.
So it spends its days twitching blindly in the wind and chewing on noise that may have once been words. Always hunger pulls at it; it shivers and shakes in need. A mess of ragged skin and muscle long soiled and stained by sea and sap, it bays at the empty sky because it cannot understand why it needs.
It is a hunter that has forgotten how to hunt. A man that has forgotten that it is a man. What it is to be a man. So it wanders and it searches and sometimes it stumbles upon roots that it has not yet touched and for a time the hunger can be hidden away and it can think, but those times a few now. Once drained the roots stay drained, as here nothing lives and nothing dies.
Too often it finds itself returning to old roots, searching for sap that it may have missed. Sometimes it meets with success and so, driven wild by need, it tears at the tired roots and they in turn twist and shudder in helpless agony. The beast pays no mind. The root cracks and splinters and in a frenzy the beast tries to suck out what little marrow remains.
Black ooze. Black tar. Thick drops slide down into the sea – and float, refusing to mix. The beast cries in anguish and falls to its knees, cupping ruined hands and trying to sift the black from red.It gulps down what it can. The red sea is bitter. It burns at the throat. The beast claws at itself and cries, and then, helpless, cups hands and drinks again.
For here, nothing lives and nothing dies and the beast knows only hunger.
------------
Originally the idea was simply to write a short piece around need and the sometimes animalistic nature of man (ideas presented in Maldoror) and I think that for the most part I accomplished that, although most definitely not in the way that I had originally envisioned, with a lot more references to other things apart from Maldoror creeping in to it.
All in all I rather like it. It's different and I think I may have actually managed to describe the landscape that was present in my head while I was writing in a way that others may end up seeing the same thing and I like the idea of that very much.
Still, stuff doesn't just go up here for my pleasure, I'm trying to get feedback so once you've read it let me know what you think.
Until next time,
M
Anyway, that sort of leads me into the story that I've got for you today - like 'The Executioner' it was written in response to Maldoror, but as you will see it is rather different, for while some of the key themes from Maldoror are still there (though not necessarily the same as those that were focused on 'Executioner'),there is a much greater emphasis on the surreal and it also contains (I think) much more in the way of conceptual imagery.
Still, I don't won’t to do too much deconstruction before you've read the damn thing, so here it is:
The Beast
Far beyond the time of man is a place where nothing lives and nothing dies. High above the sky lies blank as canvas that every now and again billows as the cold wind pushes itself across the bitter swelling of the sea, so stained by those that came before. Their remains now twisted into some cruel bower that lies just beyond the shore, a reef of bleached bodies and broken limbs. Devoid of thought and memory.
Rotted ice takes the place of continents, withered into thin lines and jagged edges: a scattering of glass upon a stagnant pond. A broken chandelier in a bathtub. Some contain the bones of buildings, marked by soot and ash, while others cradle themselves around the fallen branches of the great tree.
The old roots still hang from above, ever ignorant of gravity, they are held up by their own weight but no longer grow. Here nothing lives and nothing dies. They are wilted and scarred from an age of misuse, the bark long ago stripped away to expose once tender flesh to ripping and tearing of claws and gnashing teeth.
This is the work of the beast:
The last whole thing with a half a mind, it circles through the seas. Heaving through the bitter shallows to blink and sniff at a world that it no longer understands. For the beast looks but it does not see, it stares out upon the
endless sea with empty eyes, with sockets scooped out.
So it spends its days twitching blindly in the wind and chewing on noise that may have once been words. Always hunger pulls at it; it shivers and shakes in need. A mess of ragged skin and muscle long soiled and stained by sea and sap, it bays at the empty sky because it cannot understand why it needs.
It is a hunter that has forgotten how to hunt. A man that has forgotten that it is a man. What it is to be a man. So it wanders and it searches and sometimes it stumbles upon roots that it has not yet touched and for a time the hunger can be hidden away and it can think, but those times a few now. Once drained the roots stay drained, as here nothing lives and nothing dies.
Too often it finds itself returning to old roots, searching for sap that it may have missed. Sometimes it meets with success and so, driven wild by need, it tears at the tired roots and they in turn twist and shudder in helpless agony. The beast pays no mind. The root cracks and splinters and in a frenzy the beast tries to suck out what little marrow remains.
Black ooze. Black tar. Thick drops slide down into the sea – and float, refusing to mix. The beast cries in anguish and falls to its knees, cupping ruined hands and trying to sift the black from red.It gulps down what it can. The red sea is bitter. It burns at the throat. The beast claws at itself and cries, and then, helpless, cups hands and drinks again.
For here, nothing lives and nothing dies and the beast knows only hunger.
------------
Originally the idea was simply to write a short piece around need and the sometimes animalistic nature of man (ideas presented in Maldoror) and I think that for the most part I accomplished that, although most definitely not in the way that I had originally envisioned, with a lot more references to other things apart from Maldoror creeping in to it.
All in all I rather like it. It's different and I think I may have actually managed to describe the landscape that was present in my head while I was writing in a way that others may end up seeing the same thing and I like the idea of that very much.
Still, stuff doesn't just go up here for my pleasure, I'm trying to get feedback so once you've read it let me know what you think.
Until next time,
M
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Changing Seasons
Simple observation is something that has always fasinated me.
The idea of watching something just for the sake of watching it. Not playing a part in too and frow of events simply because you want to see how things turn out on their own.
I've often wondered what it would be like to spend a lifetime, or longer, just playing the part of the observer. Divorced from all base emotions and needs. To be comfortable and fulfilled with merely watching the world go by.
Of course I don't have to tell you there are a number of problems with this idea (Basic human needs/boredom/attention span problems that could only be solved by the ability to convert everything into a montage...also people have a habit of not living forever) but the idea still interests me enough that it served as the seed for the following piece (then I sort of messed with it).
Anyway, brace yourselves for more poetry type writing and let me know what you think in the comments.
Broken Circle.
A heady wind blows uphill then wanders down
leaving promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows childlike in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s sullen hold decay.
Bare branches spread as hands placed upon the sky,
while roots tremble and crack the glass below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
now ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.
Rains come, a scattering of grey string, held
Taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Without a voice I whisper to my children,
Curled up upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.
I dance in the wind and the sun returns, ashamed.
Young growth begins to bask in its guilty glow.
Leaves unfasten and small seeds uncoil;
I listen to the chatter of my children flow.
Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The glutted sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.
It does not stay, it does not last, my children
Crackle and dry, fading as quickly as they came.
My crown becomes a husk, a memorial
To the dead and dying and I shake with my sorrow.
I shake as if a beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and bare and alone.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
Given voice by cold wind I feel my branches groan.
The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
They give forth a neon glow that cuts the sky.
A bolt of static, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me then casts me upon ground.
I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
I writhe and turn, delirious and aloof.
My sap mixes with the ash, turned vapour in the sky.
The rains roll back in, flames hiss with hate. Too late.
I lie broken and burnt; I lie disembowelled.
No hope of healing or growth. I am done.
The slow fall of snow burries me. Folds me over. I sleep.
I barely wake in time for the return of spring,
Anchored only by the bits not blackened and burnt.
Melting snow exhumes me, both the living and the dead,
A skeleton that will not grow; a being all blunt and tamed.
Time passes. I spend most of it in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. But none are mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant roar.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.
They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
Then calmly take to me and those all around.
Laid low by servile fear I shake and I
Shudder at the sudden force, the biting axe.
Rough hands break me down into little pieces
They say I’ll find some use. Be something new.
A chair. A table. Something useful.
Something polished. But I know that it won’t be me.
So there we go. Like the last piece I put up this was part of a recent poetry assignment and apart from being inspired by the idea of the eternal observer that I touched on above it was also written in response to another poem - the Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud (which he wrote when he was 16!) which can be found here (http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Boat.html) - in that it follows the journey of an inanimate object that is described as being both conscious and unconscious of itself and its surroundings at the same time.
So have a read of Rimbaud if you are so inclined, but, keep in mind that it was originally written in French and so the translation linked above is rather different (and in my opinion not as good) from the one that I first read (if you are capable of doing so maybe read it in its original form?).
Anyway that’s enough from me for the moment. Think I’m getting into a good place with writing at the moment (The way The Executioner turned out has got me thinking about whole new avenues of writing) so the next post should not be too far away (Also, no, I haven't forgotten about my promise of pirates - so that will turn up at some point too).
Until then,
M
The idea of watching something just for the sake of watching it. Not playing a part in too and frow of events simply because you want to see how things turn out on their own.
I've often wondered what it would be like to spend a lifetime, or longer, just playing the part of the observer. Divorced from all base emotions and needs. To be comfortable and fulfilled with merely watching the world go by.
Of course I don't have to tell you there are a number of problems with this idea (Basic human needs/boredom/attention span problems that could only be solved by the ability to convert everything into a montage...also people have a habit of not living forever) but the idea still interests me enough that it served as the seed for the following piece (then I sort of messed with it).
Anyway, brace yourselves for more poetry type writing and let me know what you think in the comments.
Broken Circle.
A heady wind blows uphill then wanders down
leaving promises of warmer weather.
The sun slips bonds and wallows childlike in the snow.
Slowly waking, I feel winter’s sullen hold decay.
Bare branches spread as hands placed upon the sky,
while roots tremble and crack the glass below.
Reborn, I stand with pride on fertile soil,
now ready to cast my seed upon the earth again.
Rains come, a scattering of grey string, held
Taut across the sky; virgin buds suckle and grow.
Without a voice I whisper to my children,
Curled up upon the shore of sleep. Soon. Soon.
I dance in the wind and the sun returns, ashamed.
Young growth begins to bask in its guilty glow.
Leaves unfasten and small seeds uncoil;
I listen to the chatter of my children flow.
Spring turns summer and warmth becomes heat,
The glutted sun rests heavy upon my crown of green.
Paralysed in paradise, without thought
Or care; I could stay this way forever.
It does not stay, it does not last, my children
Crackle and dry, fading as quickly as they came.
My crown becomes a husk, a memorial
To the dead and dying and I shake with my sorrow.
I shake as if a beast that sheds its skin,
Then stand shamefaced and bare and alone.
My children lay littered at my feet. Dry and dead;
Given voice by cold wind I feel my branches groan.
The wind picks up; the storms roll in, dancing madly
They give forth a neon glow that cuts the sky.
A bolt of static, of serrated charge,
Seeks me out and breaks me then casts me upon ground.
I smoke and splutter, a furnace makes my heart;
I high pitched pyre of searing sparks and bubble talk.
I writhe and turn, delirious and aloof.
My sap mixes with the ash, turned vapour in the sky.
The rains roll back in, flames hiss with hate. Too late.
I lie broken and burnt; I lie disembowelled.
No hope of healing or growth. I am done.
The slow fall of snow burries me. Folds me over. I sleep.
I barely wake in time for the return of spring,
Anchored only by the bits not blackened and burnt.
Melting snow exhumes me, both the living and the dead,
A skeleton that will not grow; a being all blunt and tamed.
Time passes. I spend most of it in sleep.
New growth springs up all around. But none are mine.
New noises fill new trees. A distant roar.
In the distance older growth is trampled down.
They come with hard eyes and cold iron that cuts,
Then calmly take to me and those all around.
Laid low by servile fear I shake and I
Shudder at the sudden force, the biting axe.
Rough hands break me down into little pieces
They say I’ll find some use. Be something new.
A chair. A table. Something useful.
Something polished. But I know that it won’t be me.
So there we go. Like the last piece I put up this was part of a recent poetry assignment and apart from being inspired by the idea of the eternal observer that I touched on above it was also written in response to another poem - the Drunken Boat by Arthur Rimbaud (which he wrote when he was 16!) which can be found here (http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Boat.html) - in that it follows the journey of an inanimate object that is described as being both conscious and unconscious of itself and its surroundings at the same time.
So have a read of Rimbaud if you are so inclined, but, keep in mind that it was originally written in French and so the translation linked above is rather different (and in my opinion not as good) from the one that I first read (if you are capable of doing so maybe read it in its original form?).
Anyway that’s enough from me for the moment. Think I’m getting into a good place with writing at the moment (The way The Executioner turned out has got me thinking about whole new avenues of writing) so the next post should not be too far away (Also, no, I haven't forgotten about my promise of pirates - so that will turn up at some point too).
Until then,
M
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)