via design you trust
Hey, you. This is Ehaema. Listen, your understanding of how the world functions is not going to edit itself - at least, not until we're finished with it. Can we get you to face this way? Lights. And 3, 2, 1, rolling...
Sunday, April 29, 2012
STATION IDENT
via design you trust
Hey, you. This is Ehaema. Listen, your understanding of how the world functions is not going to edit itself - at least, not until we're finished with it. Can we get you to face this way? Lights. And 3, 2, 1, rolling...
Sunday, April 22, 2012
STATION IDENT
Welcome to Ehaema. Everything you knew previously was merely a prelude to the new Now. Do not be alarmed. We are here to make your transition as smooth as possible.
Just relax. This will only take a moment.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
STATION IDENT
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
To Attempt Great Things
Sample from Ehaema. For more information, please contact the author
---
The path changes often. In one direction is the known, and in the other direction a shifting tide of smells and possibilities.
Our scouts are the best at sifting those possibilities. They turn impressions into directions, discern sweetness from the unknown, leave messages for the hunters who solidify the path. Scouts are our dreaming mind, heading into the unmarked void on the most gossamer of promises and hopes. When they succeed, the path grows and the colony thrives, all of us.
When they die, they die alone and unknown. Sometimes they simply disappear; other times we catch the faint scent of their dreaming innards scraped across the summer pavement, and we know that the path cannot go where they have gone.
Now we journey through silent halls, stark and strange and filled with termites or spiders. Mad gods live here, shaking the landscape with each footfall. If we are lucky, they are oblivious to we silent soldiers foraging. If we are unlucky, they descend with sharp bellowing cries, drowning us in foul stenches, crushing us or sweeping us away like storms made flesh.
But there is treasure here, nourishment that might make us rich and strong for generations.
We grow old, walking the path, forth and back, forth and back. Each day there are less of us, each day the weariness grows. The cold is coming. The dangers of the world have left their mark, and they grow no weaker while we grow no stronger. Now, now is the only time. The most important time. Now is the time to attempt great things.
---
The path changes often. In one direction is the known, and in the other direction a shifting tide of smells and possibilities.
Our scouts are the best at sifting those possibilities. They turn impressions into directions, discern sweetness from the unknown, leave messages for the hunters who solidify the path. Scouts are our dreaming mind, heading into the unmarked void on the most gossamer of promises and hopes. When they succeed, the path grows and the colony thrives, all of us.
When they die, they die alone and unknown. Sometimes they simply disappear; other times we catch the faint scent of their dreaming innards scraped across the summer pavement, and we know that the path cannot go where they have gone.
Now we journey through silent halls, stark and strange and filled with termites or spiders. Mad gods live here, shaking the landscape with each footfall. If we are lucky, they are oblivious to we silent soldiers foraging. If we are unlucky, they descend with sharp bellowing cries, drowning us in foul stenches, crushing us or sweeping us away like storms made flesh.
But there is treasure here, nourishment that might make us rich and strong for generations.
We grow old, walking the path, forth and back, forth and back. Each day there are less of us, each day the weariness grows. The cold is coming. The dangers of the world have left their mark, and they grow no weaker while we grow no stronger. Now, now is the only time. The most important time. Now is the time to attempt great things.
Saturday, March 03, 2012
Ehaema FAQ
FAQ
Who are you?
I am Eidolon. Or fulldamage, on Livejournal. If you want to know more, go ahead and put your google-fu to the test. I'm not hard to stalk, but I'm not really here to write up an autobiography.
What is this place?
This is Ehaema. It is a blog which I have wedged into the intertubes at an odd angle. It crossposts into Livejournal as well.
What does it mean?
Ehaema is an onomatopoeia for throat-clearing, as well as a name for Mother Twilight, a dusk spirit in Estonian mythology. Not that I'm an Estonian scholar; mostly it is just a word I like.
What is it?
This is a microfiction project. On each weekday, I will post a new short piece. Weekends I will take a break, though there might be news or admin posts such as this one. For LJ-users, I'll try to keep things short or use lj-cuts so as not to blow up your stream.
Why skip weekends?
It's funny - you'd think that I would rather take it easy on workdays, and be creative on weekends? But not so much. I find that on weekdays, a shot of creativity and flexing my imagination muscle helps to keep me feel excited and engaged when I might otherwise be bored. And on days off, I don't like making myself choose between well-earned relaxing time and creative time, because then it's like either choice is a loss.
Why are you doing this?
It is practice. Microfiction is a little bite-sized chunk of work - the effort is really minimal, allowing me to fit it anywhere into my schedule, and it gives me an excuse to write every single day, to improve every single day, and to have a motivating deadline to meet and beat every single day. As with any other skill, I can only improve through regular practice, and I want to improve. I often find myself daunted or trapped in critique and self-doubt with other stories I've started. Here, I want to remove my compulsion to analyze and reconstruct the plot ad infinitum. This is just wordplay, exercise. It might, in time, become a story of a sort - but my priority is just to keep up the effort.
Forever?
I want to keep this up for a year. We'll see how that goes. But if you're moved to do so, you can help me out by commenting, reacting, or otherwise giving me incentive to always hit that deadline. And though I can't go so far as to promise you a story in the traditional sense, I will at the least try and keep things interesting.
Are you going to work on some of your older stories here?
No. It will all be new work, written specifically for this project. I may write ahead a little bit to create a buffer, because there are times when the day really is too busy or I'm traveling.
Are you a supernatural creature or a monster?
Shhhh. Hush.
Everything I've read here so far is terrible and I do not like you, as a person.
That's... not actually a question.
Can you write something for me?
It's the sort of thing I'm known to do. Leave a comment or message, and we'll parley.
You are already supposed to be writing something for me! Why are you wasting your time on these instead?
I got this. Don't make it weird.
If you have more questions, go ahead and ask.
Who are you?
I am Eidolon. Or fulldamage, on Livejournal. If you want to know more, go ahead and put your google-fu to the test. I'm not hard to stalk, but I'm not really here to write up an autobiography.
What is this place?
This is Ehaema. It is a blog which I have wedged into the intertubes at an odd angle. It crossposts into Livejournal as well.
What does it mean?
Ehaema is an onomatopoeia for throat-clearing, as well as a name for Mother Twilight, a dusk spirit in Estonian mythology. Not that I'm an Estonian scholar; mostly it is just a word I like.
What is it?
This is a microfiction project. On each weekday, I will post a new short piece. Weekends I will take a break, though there might be news or admin posts such as this one. For LJ-users, I'll try to keep things short or use lj-cuts so as not to blow up your stream.
Why skip weekends?
It's funny - you'd think that I would rather take it easy on workdays, and be creative on weekends? But not so much. I find that on weekdays, a shot of creativity and flexing my imagination muscle helps to keep me feel excited and engaged when I might otherwise be bored. And on days off, I don't like making myself choose between well-earned relaxing time and creative time, because then it's like either choice is a loss.
Why are you doing this?
It is practice. Microfiction is a little bite-sized chunk of work - the effort is really minimal, allowing me to fit it anywhere into my schedule, and it gives me an excuse to write every single day, to improve every single day, and to have a motivating deadline to meet and beat every single day. As with any other skill, I can only improve through regular practice, and I want to improve. I often find myself daunted or trapped in critique and self-doubt with other stories I've started. Here, I want to remove my compulsion to analyze and reconstruct the plot ad infinitum. This is just wordplay, exercise. It might, in time, become a story of a sort - but my priority is just to keep up the effort.
Forever?
I want to keep this up for a year. We'll see how that goes. But if you're moved to do so, you can help me out by commenting, reacting, or otherwise giving me incentive to always hit that deadline. And though I can't go so far as to promise you a story in the traditional sense, I will at the least try and keep things interesting.
Are you going to work on some of your older stories here?
No. It will all be new work, written specifically for this project. I may write ahead a little bit to create a buffer, because there are times when the day really is too busy or I'm traveling.
Are you a supernatural creature or a monster?
Shhhh. Hush.
Everything I've read here so far is terrible and I do not like you, as a person.
That's... not actually a question.
Can you write something for me?
It's the sort of thing I'm known to do. Leave a comment or message, and we'll parley.
You are already supposed to be writing something for me! Why are you wasting your time on these instead?
I got this. Don't make it weird.
If you have more questions, go ahead and ask.
Thursday, March 01, 2012
Continuous
What is this rhythm?
Not in the sky above, if it is really sky.
Below then. Beneath our feet, in the bones of this world, supporting us, holding us up against the unreachable above.
We stand upon the surface of a dark heart. Each beat may take a second, an hour, a minute, a day, a year, a decade, a century, an aeon - we cannot know.
But it beats. and with each beat, time gathers itself. Coiled, sinuous, waiting.
We must move.
For with time, there always follows an ending.
Image source: National Geographic
Not in the sky above, if it is really sky.
Below then. Beneath our feet, in the bones of this world, supporting us, holding us up against the unreachable above.
We stand upon the surface of a dark heart. Each beat may take a second, an hour, a minute, a day, a year, a decade, a century, an aeon - we cannot know.
But it beats. and with each beat, time gathers itself. Coiled, sinuous, waiting.
We must move.
For with time, there always follows an ending.
Image source: National Geographic
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Leap Day
Now.
We begin.
On a day that sometimes isn’t, in a place that we could never reach, at a time that we can not measure. There are no clocks here, nor seconds, hours, minutes, days, years, decades, centuries, aeons - all of these things are so far away in the distance that they seem to be the same size; an army of indistinguishable motes on the horizon.
But there is a horizon. From where we stand, there is a plane that we can see and reach for but not grasp. Not yet.
And there is rhythm. Rhythm implies timing, and this is how we have come to notice that time is coming. Not here yet - still drifting on the horizon, still indistinguishable in its many pieces, but we think that it is coming closer.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Testing
Now firing up the crossposter.
Applying duct tape to intertubes...
Eliminating bugs, like so...
Applying duct tape to intertubes...
Eliminating bugs, like so...
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