Milky Way Part 2 by Surrogate Self
“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”
― Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
Sunday, October 28, 2012
STATION IDENT 102812
Milky Way Part 2 by Surrogate Self
“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”
― Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing
Monday, October 22, 2012
Potential Contains
Sample from Ehaema. For more information, please contact the author
---
And so they fell. And as they fell, they fought.
Perhaps ‘fought’ was the wrong word. Perhaps it was the right word and we have come to use it in a shallow way. There was no physicality involved in what was happening to them. It was a clash of personalities, of assumptions. It was a probing of each other’s certainties, in the hopes of uncovering one that turned out to be an uncertainty. It was a Dialogue. In a realm of software, they were free to abandon the position of advocates, so that they could become living models of the things they believed.
Elan
believed
in soft, black earth with a delicious itch made of living things, a fever taking hold, threads of meaning and nourishment expanding like three dimensional fibrous fractures beneath the surface, pressure and moisture giving way to ecstatic eruption, a green and shivering newness aware in the air, tasting of light for the first time until that taste became a riot in the body, in the cells, a dew-kissed and buzzing affirmation of the value of being until the folds inside unfold and Elan presents a bloom, and the bloom feeds the air, feeds the world on the divine wind which is breath, which contains the cyclic process nested within itself, all possibility, all potential
potential contains beauty
Avernus believed
that potential contains horror
potential contains nothing. Are there, or are there not
chromosomal nightmares, cells dividing and dividing into monstrous growths in the body’s most vulnerable places, attacking the mind as they attack the body, attacking the spirit as they attack the mind, the horror of the night, the petrified stare of a poet dead in a locked room, mouldering under piss and shit and the sound of the television which has been on for a year, a year and counting in this yellowing tenement where rot has become immortalized in dust and the crusted remains in a hypodermic needle cradled in the arm like a baby, and the ashes of a poem, her last poem, invisible but potential, dead on the page, senseless ruin of beauty, of the mind, of order, of everything, and it does not have to be
we can be better
we can defy this arbitrary loss, and become a new infinite Real in which pain is but the kiss of victory that we keep in a folded scrapbook, to remind us of how we lived before Bliss.
---
And so they fell. And as they fell, they fought.
Perhaps ‘fought’ was the wrong word. Perhaps it was the right word and we have come to use it in a shallow way. There was no physicality involved in what was happening to them. It was a clash of personalities, of assumptions. It was a probing of each other’s certainties, in the hopes of uncovering one that turned out to be an uncertainty. It was a Dialogue. In a realm of software, they were free to abandon the position of advocates, so that they could become living models of the things they believed.
Elan
believed
in soft, black earth with a delicious itch made of living things, a fever taking hold, threads of meaning and nourishment expanding like three dimensional fibrous fractures beneath the surface, pressure and moisture giving way to ecstatic eruption, a green and shivering newness aware in the air, tasting of light for the first time until that taste became a riot in the body, in the cells, a dew-kissed and buzzing affirmation of the value of being until the folds inside unfold and Elan presents a bloom, and the bloom feeds the air, feeds the world on the divine wind which is breath, which contains the cyclic process nested within itself, all possibility, all potential
potential contains beauty
Avernus believed
that potential contains horror
potential contains nothing. Are there, or are there not
chromosomal nightmares, cells dividing and dividing into monstrous growths in the body’s most vulnerable places, attacking the mind as they attack the body, attacking the spirit as they attack the mind, the horror of the night, the petrified stare of a poet dead in a locked room, mouldering under piss and shit and the sound of the television which has been on for a year, a year and counting in this yellowing tenement where rot has become immortalized in dust and the crusted remains in a hypodermic needle cradled in the arm like a baby, and the ashes of a poem, her last poem, invisible but potential, dead on the page, senseless ruin of beauty, of the mind, of order, of everything, and it does not have to be
we can be better
we can defy this arbitrary loss, and become a new infinite Real in which pain is but the kiss of victory that we keep in a folded scrapbook, to remind us of how we lived before Bliss.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
STATION IDENT 102112
Stephan Martiniere via facel3ss.
This week:
- Handed off an impromptu piece to a friend that may end up as part of their branding.
- Won a contest at work based on an idea I had, that I am now getting paid to work on a bit every day.
- Hatched plans to ramp up the writing effort during the month of November
I mean, plenty of crappy stuff happened too but I'm pretty sure the universe does that on purpose; if the wheels didn't come off of things periodically I'd just drive right into the ocean.
If things are going well for you, then continue to rock. If they're not going so well, just remember it is all fuel for the fire that you will use to manifest. Light it up. We'll be right there with you, trying to keep warm by the heat of our mistakes, all through the dark season.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
STATION IDENT 101412
Emanation, by Sukhi Barber
October is a month that plays merry hell with the identity. Spirits speak up. Harvests are brought in, leaving the harvest bringers to face down the reaper, and the question of what the upcoming dark months will turn them into, now that the earth is done rewarding them. Masks appear, changing revelers into the people they wish they were, or the creatures they're afraid that they are.
In America it is both Cyber Security awareness month and LGBT History month - so we consider the questions of online identity and sexual identity as they undergo transformation in global conversation, and our self-concepts undergo transfiguration consequently.
It is also Filipino history month in the US, and Black history month in the UK. Suits me just about right.
7.5 months of Ehaema, this year of twilight evolution, the year that I bridge realities, from the one in which I imagine having written a book, to the one in which I imagine having written a REALLY GOOD book. :D Happy Harvest Season, friends and readers. Enjoy yourselves at the masquerade.
--K
Sunday, October 07, 2012
STATION IDENT 100712
Kristen Nicole via Silicon Angle
April: How can you do that? How can you remember every story ever told?
The Teller: The secret is to tell them often, and to tell them in your own words, not the words of your ancestors.
April: Doesn't that mean that the stories change with every generation?
The Teller: Yes, as all Tales must. Change is important, otherwise the Tales will have no meaning to us... They will be just words, and we do not care about the words. We care about what the words tell us.
- The Longest Journey, Ragnar Tornquist
Thursday, October 04, 2012
In Equal Measure
Sample from Ehaema. For more information, please contact the author
---
“Seriously. Do I come and do this in your house?”
“Whatever man. Maybe.” Zip. “In this country I’m thinking yeah, maybe Jesus does piss a little bit in everyone’s house.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a wretched human being, Vanya?”
The Martyr’s tongue lolled free from his coyote teeth. Laying a hand on the small crucified being’s shoulder, he leaned uncomfortably close in and whispered, “I think something very strange is happening.”
“Man, you’re telling me.” His audience looked more than a little disturbed.
“Listen. I think I need a favor.”
Tiny Jesus sighed. “Would you believe I’ve heard this one before? Shocking, I know. Word to the wise, though, Vanya - this is maybe not the best favor-asking technique ever invented. I don’t think it’s really even in the top ten, let me check - nope, not even close. But let’s hear it, since obviously I’m not going anywhere at the moment.” The little figure shrugged, which on a crucifix is quite a trick.
“That’s it! That’s it.” Vanya leapt back, bounced off a pew and doubled over, smacking a fist into his forehead a few times as if to beat back a revelation attempting to spring forth. Tiny Jesus invented a new expression that borrowed from both relieved and perplexed in equal measure as he waited for the man to express himself in more verbal, less kinetic terms.
“The walls between things - they’ve gotten thin, too thin. I think something’s broken. You gotta come with me.”
“I have to do what now? Hey, no look - aww, you haven’t even washed your hands! Come on, man!” The Martyr was already prying the idol loose from the wall.
“You going to help me get that chalice. And then with it, we can start to repair whatever is going wrong with space-time. That’s the favor. Come on, get off of there.”
“Vanya, why do you think I need to come with you? I’m just an object.”
“Everything is just an object. Why you think you need to stay here?” With a faint crunch of protesting plaster, Tiny Jesus left the wall and disappeared into a large hip pocket of the Martyr’s coat.
“Fair point. I don’t have a patent on working in mysterious ways, after all -- oh WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING IN HERE?”
“Dreams,” answered the Martyr. “Let’s go do some good deeds.”
With that, he sauntered up to the front of the church, and after a few curses and some struggling with the uncooperative lock, breezed unsteadily out through the front door with his newfound companion, leaving only their voices behind.
“Any guarantee these deeds are actually going to be good?”
“Aw, hell no.”
---
“Seriously. Do I come and do this in your house?”
“Whatever man. Maybe.” Zip. “In this country I’m thinking yeah, maybe Jesus does piss a little bit in everyone’s house.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a wretched human being, Vanya?”
The Martyr’s tongue lolled free from his coyote teeth. Laying a hand on the small crucified being’s shoulder, he leaned uncomfortably close in and whispered, “I think something very strange is happening.”
“Man, you’re telling me.” His audience looked more than a little disturbed.
“Listen. I think I need a favor.”
Tiny Jesus sighed. “Would you believe I’ve heard this one before? Shocking, I know. Word to the wise, though, Vanya - this is maybe not the best favor-asking technique ever invented. I don’t think it’s really even in the top ten, let me check - nope, not even close. But let’s hear it, since obviously I’m not going anywhere at the moment.” The little figure shrugged, which on a crucifix is quite a trick.
“That’s it! That’s it.” Vanya leapt back, bounced off a pew and doubled over, smacking a fist into his forehead a few times as if to beat back a revelation attempting to spring forth. Tiny Jesus invented a new expression that borrowed from both relieved and perplexed in equal measure as he waited for the man to express himself in more verbal, less kinetic terms.
“The walls between things - they’ve gotten thin, too thin. I think something’s broken. You gotta come with me.”
“I have to do what now? Hey, no look - aww, you haven’t even washed your hands! Come on, man!” The Martyr was already prying the idol loose from the wall.
“You going to help me get that chalice. And then with it, we can start to repair whatever is going wrong with space-time. That’s the favor. Come on, get off of there.”
“Vanya, why do you think I need to come with you? I’m just an object.”
“Everything is just an object. Why you think you need to stay here?” With a faint crunch of protesting plaster, Tiny Jesus left the wall and disappeared into a large hip pocket of the Martyr’s coat.
“Fair point. I don’t have a patent on working in mysterious ways, after all -- oh WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING IN HERE?”
“Dreams,” answered the Martyr. “Let’s go do some good deeds.”
With that, he sauntered up to the front of the church, and after a few curses and some struggling with the uncooperative lock, breezed unsteadily out through the front door with his newfound companion, leaving only their voices behind.
“Any guarantee these deeds are actually going to be good?”
“Aw, hell no.”
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