STATION IDENT 022413

Source


Why are there not more Sundays?  I could use about a month of them, all in a row.

The more I write, the more often I begin to remember elements of dreams I've had.  Long after the fact, after I've awoken from a sleep which I presumed to be dreamless, I'll be going through my day, fiddling with a phrasing or a plot development in my head, and I'll realize that my mood is being influenced by some long, complicated, and probably nonsensical chain of events that I experienced during the night, now only available to me in flashes of insight that disappear as swiftly as I grasp for them.

Maybe they're not correlated at all - the dreaming, the writing.  I just notice this sensation more often these days.  The dreams have always reared their heads whenever I have problems IRL that seem daunting or insurmountable.  Little pseudo-conscious mechanisms running the simulation 10, 15, 100 times every night, trying to figure out which layer of reality is the one in which triumph is possible, or failure is at least properly interesting.

May you wake and remember a world that belongs to you, this week.  Safe travels.

STATION IDENT 021713

Source:  Deimante Ceciene



Whew.  Three more entries; that officially puts me past Feb 28th.  It'll take a few more scenes to tie things up nicely, but there you go - one year worth of weekday writing.  And it's been a blast. I'll try to finish up before February 28th actually gets here, and that'll be that - one year, one novel.  Giddyup.

After that, I've got other projects clamoring for attention, and I'll have to turn to those for a couple of months before I take a swing at my second draft.  I actually need to come up with a title, you know?  Ehaema will probably remain the name of blog, where I'll continue to post new writing and musings and such, but it doesn't feel quite right for the title of the book.  I expect I'll figure something out eventually (but hey, feel free to suggest something!)

Oh, also.  Every day I'm tumblin':

http://nosavingthrow.tumblr.com/

So much for the fun part of the week.  Now here comes the weekday bit.  Give me strength.

STATION IDENT 021013

You're so close.

It's within reach.  You can see it.  It's right there.

You can do it.

Just breathe.  Focus.

1, 2, 3...


^ me, every day.  Every goddamn day.

STATION IDENT 020313

Pulling the pieces together

one by one

flavor of the text is the skin of the thing, surface tension, what keeps the spider journeying along the surface of the piece rather than plunging downward into a fluid of broken metaphors drowned in apathy

the core succeeds, against all odds

the next phase is design.  Should it be design?  there is a certain amount of magic visible in the creation of something raw and unbeautiful, unstructured and free to wander, captured as it was at the moment of rude explosion onto the page.  For some people that is the wonder of the creative act.  You cut it off from that generative wonder and maybe it dies, maybe the polished and pretty texts are just so much glossy cadaver and weren't anything more, while we spend another year digging in the guts of the thing, embalming a smile, applying tweezers, clamps and electrodes to get it to dance a little jig, smell it burn, feel we learned.  Is there a point to that?  Is that the point itself?

Little gods making little lives, in many little ways.

this has been ehaema acoustic, live and uncensored, and a little bit weird

now returning to your regularly scheduled programming