Logos

Halfway through shaving it came–
the word for a poem.
I should have scribbled it
on the mirror with a soapy finger,
Gone Forever ~~ Barriss Mills

Lately it seems as if words have lost their meaning. Where once there was a wealth, seemingly endless, now there is a dearth. I feel empty. Exhausted.

Mnemosyne has cradled my head and brought me back to places past. Places which I have no desire to revisit. I wake up in the middle of the night to whispered words, the voice my own. Yet they will not stay with me. I force them from my mouth again and again, as if speaking them aloud will transform them into something substantial, some form that I can retrieve in the morning's light. But this is an exercise in futility. What I have left, the gossamer remnants, are scattered on random slips of paper that I leave where they fall.

I find them later and wonder why.

Her memories have been lost in death.
I mourn for them.

My blood runs, thick as stones

The mind's eye is deceitful.
It shows us a face we can live with.

Perhaps I just need rest.
so that we may sleep... when sleep will have us

I have no choice. I can never connect the psyche and the logos in this state.

I will sleep
when the last star
has lost its light
and my love is
wrapped around me
Like my own skin

Let me tell you this once
(I will not be able to say it again):
I have lost the meaning of words.
Heavy, they ripped
away from the sounds,
fell into cracked ground.
Naming ~~ Nancy Mair

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

 

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Currently Reading: I'm working on my latest book review for Blogcritics. Dead Air by Deborah Shlian and Linda Reid ~ due for release in December.

Shakespeare for Telemarketers

Featured Blog: Fizzle and Pop

Collin is one of my oldest blogging buddies. We also worked together on the Fizzle and Pop Writing Forum a few years ago. A project that was a blast to be a part of, but extremely time consuming to moderate -- it ended with a fizzle and no pop.

That may have been my fault. I was moderating at the time and the last writing challenge ended with people wondering in comments if I was dead. And I was. Okay. No I wasn't. But don't tell them that. They might want their burial donations back.

So we never got to the voting stage on the last challenge. And now the writing forum stands as a memorial to the community of brilliant, witty writers who once played there. We may still have links on sites like a Harley Davidson shop who apparently thought their visitors would like the Motorcycles Vs Carousel Horses discussion. And the pet store who must have thought that when Collin wrote about 'petting his chinchilla' he actually meant a real chinchilla. I'm sure their visitors must get a kick out of it when they read and realize what he was actually talking about. Unfortunately this has become a Members Only section with a note from Collin:
These are games that are open to members only.
Because they're dirty and stuff.
The games.
Not the members.
I told you he was funny.

I was reading a post on the beefjerky blog on 101 Creative Ways to deal with telemarketers.
* Tell them you have that stuff for sale that they've always wanted, but this time it's gonna cost them. If they ask what stuff, tell them 'you know the stuff i'm talking about'

That made me laugh.

Then I read The Job Search Continues by Collin...

I came across a posting for "Phone Actors & Actresses"... I'm thinking "Sex Line." That, or perhaps they call up people and do Macbeth at them until they're paid to stop.

*ring*ring*

"Hello?"

"And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence."

*click*

I thought to myself that perhaps if you combine the two...
Shakespeare For Telemarketers.



You might actually have a real solution to the telemarketer problem. I would recommend that you memorize some Richard III and recite it in a loud, obnoxious, Shakespearean voice. Think Lawrence Olivier... only louder and roll your rrrrrrrrrs longer.

Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not;
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries...

Do not be detered from your speech no matter what they say on the other end of the line. This is war! You must bring them to their knees.


I hope you enjoy a visit to Collin's blog.
He's a brilliant, witty writer.

I hate and I love

These chains that bind me are not of metal nor silk.
They have been forged by my own hand. My own heart.
I know I should go and yet I cannot move.

Why is it that the more cruel he behaves the more I fold myself into him? Why is it that one sharp word from his lips can send me into the darkest of places? And yet every word from my own lips is of love.

There is most certainly betrayal here. But is it his betrayal or mine? And who is being betrayed? Does he betray me or do I betray myself?

Thank you Catullus for seeing the truth in contradictions.



I HATE and I love. Why I do so, perhaps you ask.
I know not, but I feel it, and I am in torment.
~~Gaius Valerius Catullus

I knew a ferryman before.
But he was not so old as you.
He spoke from unembittered lips,
With careless eyes on the bright sea
One day, such bitter words to me
As age and wisdom never knew.
Sappho Crosses the Dark River into Hades
~~Edna St. Vincent Millay

Vampire

A man has only one escape from his old self: to see a different self in the mirror of some woman's eyes.
Claire Booth Luce

Isn't that what we all strive for?
To be seen by our lover as a better person than we see ourselves?
We hope that they can look beyond all of those idiosyncrasies, those things we cannot abide in ourselves, and see instead the person we wish to be. That they may help us become more like that which we desire to be.

So why does it always seem that women get the short end of this stick? That we are supposed to tolerate constant comparisons to embryonic twits that leave us only more ambiguous, more fearful to gaze at ourselves? Smaller, diminished in some way, in order to keep him happy? While he grows and blossoms under our loving touch.

De Beauvoir --I think?-- says that it's women only that possess the amazing power of reflecting a man's image back to him doubled in size...
and only half of her own.

That's how I am feeling today.
Half of myself.
The least important half of a happy couple.
My first instinct is to beat myself up for feeling this way. Some form of my vicious hatred of self pity. If you know me at all you know that I don't tolerate antagonism well. Yes, not one of my better qualities. I do not suffer fools either. And if you want to go rounds with me you'd better do it wearing armor because I like to fight. I didn't come by my former name accidently. I earned it.

And so my first instinct is to lash out when I'm feeling any form of self-loathing. Lash at myself, lash at anyone within scratching distance. Never unjustly though - it does take a lot to piss me off.

But protecting loved ones is one point where I never hesitate - and my wrath is awesome. But with every drop of blood drawn I become less. And he grows. I swear love is leeching. It sucks the blood from my very veins sometimes. I give my strength and once given it can never be restored. That part gone.

And would he prefer that? To see his lover diminished? No. That's what he finds attractive. So when she has drained her very spirit for him he looks upon her as weak. And he must look for someone new and vibrant. Someone to feed the appetite of a strong man like himself.

I find it sickening.
And gross.

And I will staunch that flow and restore myself.
No one may take from me and I have no need.

News of the Weird

My mind is a dark place where brave men don't bother to tread.


My late great LOLsecretz kitteh, Spooky.
I miss his mischief.

The news from My Desk.
My modem went on the fritz so I vanished for a bit. But I'm back now.
Consider yourself warned.

I've been working hard to catch up on my Secret Brain Crush. He's as witty, caustic and brilliant as ever. I find myself humming this song by The Troggs after reading him. Sheesh.

Insomnia has kicked in full tilt boogie so don't be shocked if you see posts or comments appearing after the Witching Hour. I am, after all, a Creature of the Night. Mwahaha

The news from My Library.
I've just started reading The Fate of Katherine Carr by Thomas H Cook. The tale of a journalist who had given up his position writing about missing persons after the abduction and murder of his own eight year old son. He is drawn back into that world when an investigator introduces him to the case of a missing woman, Katherine Carr, a poet and writer who had disappeared 20 years previously. She had become a recluse after being attacked and the novel's main character, George Gates, loses himself in the mystery of her disappearance after reading her unpublished poems and a story she had written about the abduction of a woman--all of which looks to have been a presentiment of her own fate.
Sounds interesting, No?

The news from Missouri (or Misery, as we Yankee transplant infidel road-trippers call it): I had such high hopes after reading that MySpace Crazy Mom, Lori Drew, was actually going to be charged in the suicide case of Megan Meier. And now the conviction has been overturned? Apparently the laws on computer crimes are too vague. Is it going to take someone dying before they start taking Cyber Stalking seriously? Oh wait. That's already happened. I'm sure it's nothing that a little percussive brain therapy wouldn't cure.


The news from London: FJL has found God? Probably tried to get him to buy her drinks in a bar or maybe at an Internet Cafe where she definitely was not on the Internet, that was the Holy Ghost up to his old tricks again. He's such a joker, you know? Her sock puppets will vouch for her. She, and all of her personalities, were safe at home being beautiful, wonderful and completely sane.
What that means for the rest of the blogging world?
Jesus is her Co-Blogger.
The end is very frickin' Nigh.


Technorati Tags: Cats, Literature, London, Blogging, Stalker, woodnotwood

Broken House - A Parable

The facade, once faded green, has now been painted a blissful, institutional yellow.

I drive by on my way to my new home. This new home doesn't quite fit me. I feel like a man who has been forced to walk barefooted and considers himself lucky to have found someone else's discarded shoes. I know I should feel grateful to be shod at all, and yet, these shoes do not fit me, they were not made for me and no matter how hard I try I cannot force myself into feeling that these are now my shoes. They are good shoes. Well, good enough shoes anyway... they are not my shoes. However long I may wear them, they will never bring me comfort, only a blister on my heel to remind me that I should be grateful. I force myself to feel grateful.

I see the pink babydoll buggy laying abandoned in the front yard. The garage door is half open revealing a sterile orderliness. Tools hung in their right places on a peg board. Boxes stacked neatly against one wall. God does like a neat tidy package, perhaps that's where we went wrong? Too frenetic in our desires, too much in love with life, too chaotic in our security, we filled it with our loud voices and the things we had acquired in our travels, our music and all of the miscellany that comes with years. From elementary school finger paintings to high school year books, we crammed it all in--knowing that this was our home. Or would someday be. Perhaps that is why? Because we had the audacity to assume our future.

I have seen them of course. I know them. They know me. But not in a way that's personal, not intimately, like old friends who share their darkest secrets. Yet they do know my darkest secret, they've glimpsed a part of my shame. Without this we might have been friends. Might have walked our children to school together or stood by our mailboxes and chatted about growing tomatoes or trimming the hedges. As it is now I feel the sting of red in my cheeks whenever they approach, I move away quickly lest they recognize my stain.

Still, they are good people. They took the time to ask other neighbors where we might have gone. They gathered the mail that came in our name in little rubber-banded bundles and saved it for us. When they found us they gave us the mail, and some of the items that haste had made us leave behind. Important things, a baby picture here, a book that showed our fervent adoration in its well-worn cover and broken binding. Other things that they felt might have significance to a family with children, they would know these items, recognize them immediately, they are a family as well. I know they are good people. I hope for them that they find the shelter and security that we could not hold onto. I hope this house, this bright, friendly, yellow house, does not become an ami de cour as it did for us.

I drive up the street to my new house and feel the blister of my unfitting shoes.
I force myself to feel grateful.


For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon
The Houses ~~Rudyard Kipling



Technorati Tags: home, mourning, literature, woodnotwood

Some Good News

The book is well under way.
The publishers couldn't be happier.

The bad news...
The deadline is March 15th! And I'm still writing, re-writing and editing.

Some days I swear that I can't pull one more coherent thought out of my head, the next day the words come so fast and furious that I can't write them quickly enough. What I have now is such a jumble that I'm not even sure I can re-organize it. What I need is an assistant. And a new mini recorder, mine chose the worst possible time to conk out.

Among the unbound fragments
found after Emily Dickinson's death
is a small slip of paper that reads only,
"But ought not the amanuensis to receive a commission also --"

I'm no Emily Dickinson, but I completely understand.
I've come to believe that dictation is the ultimate act of love.
To have someone who cares for your words enough to make that sacrifice is a precious gift that cannot bear the weight of a price tag, nor can it be given enough gratitude.



Technorati Tags: Writers, Women, Books, Literature, Flugtag, woodnotwood
Ramstein Flugtag 1988

Download Books for iPhone

Manybooks.net is now offering books for download on iPhones.

I highly recommend The Book of the Damned.



Books, Geek, iPhone, Literature, Technology, Woodnotwood

On stories Grimm

LathronAniron

Then he looked at her foot and saw how the blood was trickling from it. He turned his horse round and took the false bride home again, and said she was not the true one, and that the other sister was to put the shoe on. Then this one went into her chamber and got her toes safely into the shoe, but her heel was too large. So her mother gave her a knife and said, cut a bit off your heel, when you are queen you will have no more need to go on foot. The maiden cut a bit off her heel, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the king's son.

And so goes the story of Cinderella, not the sanitized, expurgated versions that our children have been exposed to, but the raw, undiluted versions that were intended for the masses, not necessarily for the tender ears of children.

The Grimm fairytales were much darker than the family friendly renditions that came later. They were full of blood and mutilation, torture and torment. No dancing dwarves, no fairy Godmothers.

As punishment for her wicked ways, a pair of heated iron shoes were brought forth with tongs and placed before the Queen. She was then forced to step into the red-hot shoes and dance until she fell down dead. Snow White

Enough to give a child nightmares. I had forgotten how dark the Grimm stories were. Strange to re-read these stories, so beloved in youth, and realize that they were so dark and nightmarish that I would be doubtful to let young children read them.

Yet they were moral stories and powerful in their convictions.

I wonder if we are not doing our children a disservice by feeding them the watered down versions. After all, we loved them. We learned so much from them. Why should we fear to expose our children to them?


This has been just another drop in the ocean of useless knowledge.

Snow, Glass, Apples:
the story of Snow White

Chaos

In the beginning there was only Chaos, vast and dark.
Chaos, the gaping void. The mother of all that would come after her.
Then Erebus, the father of the night skies.
He brought forth day.
And Eros, to soften hearts and bend the will of men.
He brought divine order and perfected all things.

It is my natural state this chaos. The situation where everything began and I feel more and more that it pulls at me harder than all other forces. And it restrains me also. Keeping me bound in a way that prevents me from wandering as I would like to wander.

Someone said this to me recently..
Days, weeks, months, years. And compared to the billions of years in which the cosmos has been evolving, it's really just the blink of an eye. I wonder why it all seems so fraught sometimes... we look for purpose in everything, instead of just... being.

Don't you think?

Fraught...
And I was pulled to that place once again.
That place of wondering about my own satisfaction.
I sat and read on the couch, the light from the fire warming me whilst I buried myself in the words on the page.

And Zeus had conquered the Titans and so the Olympians had come to power.
And when Zeus learned that the child his wife Metis carried in her womb would grow to be more powerful than himself he swallowed Metis to prevent the childs birth. But it caused him so much physical distress that Hephaestus split his head open with an axe and out sprang Athene, 'fully armed and brandishing a sharp javelin.’

Great Olympus was profoundly shaken by the dash and impetuosity of the bright-eyed goddess. The Earth echoed with a terrible sound, the sea trembled and its dark waves rose.

And this coincided with disturbances on Jupiter - the pull of the heavens upon the lives of mortals - and so I began to think that therein lies the truth. That growth is often foreshadowed by great chaos.
That this is the impetus to forward motion.
And I feel myself flung about. And all I want is a safe place to lay my head and rest a bit. This does not seem to be possible right now however. Everything in my life right now is contrived, strategized, formulated in such a way that it leaves me feeling pulled upon.
Stretched and thin.
Barely breathing.
And there is no end in sight to my ambiguity.

To be as Athene and burst forth thusly?
Ready to do battle? Prepared before birth to conquer.
Or to sit captive to the forces of nature?
To see what the Gods have in mind for me?

Can I let go that long?