"In short, an idea like Beauty has much in common with what many theists would call 'God'. Yet despite its transcendence, the ideas were to be found within the mind of man. we moderns experience thinking as an activity, as something that we do. Plato envisaged it as something which happens to the mind: the objects of thought were realities that were active in the intellect of the man who contemplated them. Like Socrates, he saw thought as a process of recollection, an apprehension of something we had always known but had forgotten."
- from A History of God, by Karen Armstrong
"Since I was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound.
Anyone separated from someone he loves understands what I say, anyone pulled from a source longs to go back."
- Jalal ad-Din Rumi
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
those first few cryptic lines.
Hi. This is me avoiding work.
Cut to fifteen minutes ago. I'm skimming through Danielewski's House of Leaves, searching for some semblance of insight for a contemporary-horror paper. But not really. Mostly just thinking, "Hey. I should do something useless and absolutely irresponsible right now." And so I made a blog.
Don't roll your eyes. If you know me you shouldn't be surprised.
As indecisive as I am, it's a miracle I was able to settle on an actual title for this, let alone a template. Expect both to change very soon. But for now, "In Arrow Park" sits happily up there in the title-throne. This is a mostly obscure and unapologetic reference to the novel I have been writing for the past year and a half. It's working title is The Sound of Falling Sticks. Let me know if you'd like to see some of it, I'd be glad to send over a copy. In fact, I might post some passages in the blog every so often. Mmmmm or maybe right now:
"Oh God oh god oh godohjesus.
Panic. Simon Archer woke up and panicked. He awoke to realize just how delicate he really was. He felt something like a knot, tangled the veins of his neck that, in his delirium, he oddly identified as God. God infiltrating his throat and stealing from him the breath of life.
I am dying I know this Oh God."
There you have it. The very first lines of the manuscript, in its currently haphazard condition. If you didn't catch it, the little italicized parts are internalized narration. Thoughts. Musings. Blog-fodder. Whatever.
Well that's it. I don't really have anything else. I have the feeling that my later posts will come out nothing like this one. Feels too preachy. I've never been one for the soapbox, so consider this the introduction. The first impression. Etcetera. You can expect music/film/book reviews and some of my writing to follow.
Prose and poems and prose poems and lyrics await,
Bill
P.S. If anyone even actually reads this, feel free to throw some paper topics my way. I'm thinking digital typography, remediation, or some haphazard parallel to Lovecraft. "The Navidson Record functions as a modern reprisal of the Cthulu mythos by blahblahblah..."
Cut to fifteen minutes ago. I'm skimming through Danielewski's House of Leaves, searching for some semblance of insight for a contemporary-horror paper. But not really. Mostly just thinking, "Hey. I should do something useless and absolutely irresponsible right now." And so I made a blog.
Don't roll your eyes. If you know me you shouldn't be surprised.
As indecisive as I am, it's a miracle I was able to settle on an actual title for this, let alone a template. Expect both to change very soon. But for now, "In Arrow Park" sits happily up there in the title-throne. This is a mostly obscure and unapologetic reference to the novel I have been writing for the past year and a half. It's working title is The Sound of Falling Sticks. Let me know if you'd like to see some of it, I'd be glad to send over a copy. In fact, I might post some passages in the blog every so often. Mmmmm or maybe right now:
"Oh God oh god oh godohjesus.
Panic. Simon Archer woke up and panicked. He awoke to realize just how delicate he really was. He felt something like a knot, tangled the veins of his neck that, in his delirium, he oddly identified as God. God infiltrating his throat and stealing from him the breath of life.
I am dying I know this Oh God."
There you have it. The very first lines of the manuscript, in its currently haphazard condition. If you didn't catch it, the little italicized parts are internalized narration. Thoughts. Musings. Blog-fodder. Whatever.
Well that's it. I don't really have anything else. I have the feeling that my later posts will come out nothing like this one. Feels too preachy. I've never been one for the soapbox, so consider this the introduction. The first impression. Etcetera. You can expect music/film/book reviews and some of my writing to follow.
Prose and poems and prose poems and lyrics await,
Bill
P.S. If anyone even actually reads this, feel free to throw some paper topics my way. I'm thinking digital typography, remediation, or some haphazard parallel to Lovecraft. "The Navidson Record functions as a modern reprisal of the Cthulu mythos by blahblahblah..."
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