Magic Writing

I’ve been struggling for years to get back into writing creative stuff — by that I mean poetry, fiction, so on. A friend once said I was one of the most prolific writers he knew, even though he is the most prolific writer I know. I tell you that to tell you this: since I finished my MFA I have completed maybe three short stories, and no poems. Or rather, every so often I will write a poem in the margin of a book or in a journal, but I never consider making it public in some way. This blog post serves as a companion, a non-fiction piece accompanying this poem. You should read it, but you can read this post first if you’d prefer. Or the poem. There’s no set order or anything, is what I’m saying.

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Memories Apurpose

Being convinced I play in Memphis.
Therapy -> equations in a computer.
Wife, friend, become a computer.
I knew how he felt about my birthday.
College campus as my own mind.
Gabriel Pomerand -> equations in the answers written here,
this journal this morning – Dad proud of mourning.
A game played in Florence, not Lexington.
The fear of a friend for shooting the two inch hole between rooms.

Wife still in bed as in a blind catechism, unheard unfelt.
Art, equations in Memphis.
Absolute certainty on these roads.
I came back to the fictional.
“Now, that song!”
Moon in Vietnam.
Attempt to write here, this journal this pen, a plastic bag.
The old 50s “atomic” sign.

I ended up memories apurpose.

There is a companion post to this poem here.

Isn’t this the weirdest line in a song? It’s off…

Isn’t this the weirdest line in a song? It’s off Dark Side of the Moon, naturally, and it comes right near the beginning. It’s unexpected for a speaker, and one who’s proving himself good at it, to dwindle down into quietude as he says he thought there was more to it than this.

The line’s followed by the release of tense energy that’s been underlying the song so far. No more lyrics follow, only bombastic music.

But eventually that dies down as well. What we get instead is the first of the spoken word recordings the band made by roaming the recording studio and asking questions. It’s the famous claim that the speaker isn’t afraid of death.

And after that? The inarticulate singing of a woman who has not appeared as of yet, seguing eventually into quiet sound.

The album’s over, right? Well, no. The next track is “Money.” Damn. That’s what it’s like to be silenced, then…

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Selling books, selling slicing life

Let’s do another anime post, those are fun and relevant to my interests. TheKittyMeister and I continue to watch a lot of anime, partly because, well, I’m paying for Crunchyroll, we should probably use it. And so we watched Denki-GaiMy relationship with slice-of-life is rocky, at best, but I quite like a lot of them. So this one’s got me thinking about why.

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End of Time, End of Anxiety

I just finished re-reading Moorcock’s Dancers at the End of Time. I may actually prefer the End of Time to the Elric stories, in that they suit my temperament much more. Elric was instrumental in my formative years, so I’ll never not think of those stories as some of my favorites, but — along with my personal preference — everyone talks about Elric. What about Jherek Carnelian?

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Future pathways and granola

We have patterns in our heads. That’s not news, of course. If we didn’t have patterns, we wouldn’t be able to read, or drive a car, or cook a steak. We have instructions, recipes, how-tos, habits, Pavlovian responses, Freudian imaging, Jungian archetypes… We’ve got it all. Our heads are pretty crowded. So let me tell you about granola bars.

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Music: a personal narrative

That title isn’t necessarily a weird description. I’m trying to change it up a little compared to my past blogs, and one thing I have staunchly refused to do in the past is just talk about myself. It all has to do with starting out on Livejournal and being as whiny as one might expect on that platform. So let’s see what happens if I just start writing about my relationship to music.

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From The Dispossessed. The scene is the main character, Shevek,…

From The Dispossessed. The scene is the main character, Shevek, walking to see his family for the first time in years. Suddenly there is a small earthquake. Nothing is damaged, no one is hurt. But it serves to remind Shevek of this fact, that everything is transient and the appearance of solidity, endurance, is in our heads.

You see, the book is about anarchism, capitalism, wall-building, physics, general field theories, and famine. Among other things. Shevek is the only individual who can possibly unite temporal and spatial physics, along with, perhaps, all the world’s of the galaxy. It is because he is Odonian, part of a society that functions through anarchism. Not the anarchism of angry children writing on bathroom walls, but real anarchism, where no one forces anyone to do anything but everyone is allowed to find what they want to do – and so everyone works, as though they were being made to.

The two ideas link up, transience and anarchism. In simple ways : if nothing lasts, one can’t own anything. And in complicated ways: the human mind is the only thing that can promise. We are gifts to one another, and only in giving are we free, because we are loosed from the impossibility of having.

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