Friday, January 31, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
At some point, this series will cross back over with the regular magician series stories. If only to see how Dyer handles being asked to look after Jay while the magician and Charlie go off to talk, drink, and catch up on their lives.(I originally wrote, as a typo, ‘catch up with their lies’ and I imagine they will do that as well.)
Saturday, January 25, 2014
- Wrote 4 poems, one a prose-poem in the magician series.
- Wrote a bit of stream of consciousness fun.
- Wrote a meta magician series piece in which Jay writes a My Little Pony fanfic and has the magician read it. (No, really, I did that. I had to do research on My Little Pony for this. Never let anyone tell you a writer doesn't suffer for their craft :)
- Plotted out the next story of the Charlie/Dyer sequence in my head. May write it later tonight.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Saturday, January 04, 2014
Every author writes about things they have not experienced. This is the nature of writing, of placing yourself into the heads of characters, into the events they have experienced. No one copes with events in quite the same manner, no one deals with shit in the same way as everyone else does. To say that someone should not be able to write about events they themselves have not experienced strikes me as censorship of the worst kind. No one owns events. No one owns concepts, or ideas, or even pain and trauma. Nor the expression of it.
Whether one understands a situation/concept/group better from the inside or the outside is an old, old debate, and one never likely to cease. But telling people they should not even make the attempt, that the way they put their own pain into words is invalid because it is not your way, strikes me as dangerous ground to walk on. Yes, some things should not be glorified, but telling people they shouldn't be able to write about them is not a solution at all but perhaps an even worse problem.
No one is going to write about anything in the same manner, or see the same events with the same eyes. We will hurt each other: we can't not hurt each other. But writing can be an act of understanding, a fumbling toward truths in one's own way. And it seems to me to be a poor and narrow thing to limit others because they do not see the world in quite the same way as one does, to say nothing of deeply insulting to imply that because someone turned pain into a kind of poetry that they never experienced said pain at all.
Thursday, January 02, 2014
Organized from December - January.
- 82 notes
Every day, paper and coffee, at the table
Sitting as close as lovers, as estranged as strangers.
Our children talk as if our lives were fables,
And I turn to you, and wonder who believes it’s true.
Every day, we smile by reflex in mornings.
Every day, we sit in the same places, and repeat
The same phrases, neither of us mourning
Who we used to be before we were you and me.
We gave up love for contentment,
Pedestrian friendship all that is left in the end.
I hid all the Valentines I never sent —
When I see you I don’t see how they’re true.
- 205 notes
And having wrote a thousand poems
That no one liked at all, they said:
I have not been understood, I am
finally a poet after all.
- 93 notes
Dark matter is the iceberg
Of lives barely visible, surface tensions
rippling through magic volume unseen,
unknowable, but still real.
The urban myth is that
90% of the brain goes unused.
Yet 90% of the matter
In the universe is unseen.
You think this is coincidental?
You think it doesn’t matter?
Think again. Everything matters.
Poets would say that love is dark
matter barely visible, because poets
think too much about love,
and write it the way they write loss.
- 51 notes
Like most serial killers, he started small. Not wanting to harm animals, he began unfriending people on facebook instead.
- 83 notes
What does it matter where I’m from?
Hiding under hostmasks we
Could be anyone.
But you always ask, trying to establish
Some kind of continuity
To mesh with your wish.
How can I think you’re real? You are only a
Photoshop face lying to me
But you look so lonely.
It all ends in tears, that’s the way it goes
And whether you loved me -
I know I’ll never know.
- 63 notes
The taming of the children was
Not simple at all because
They’d learned life from TV:
A kind of rarefied reality, you see.
They thought they could be
Absolved of all worries:
In 30 minutes, or two parts,
All matters of the heart
Would be solved and I
Found I, too, liked this lie,
So each day we watch TV, and
Live in a land we’d long to be.
- 112 notes
Your skin is skin, smile just
that curving of lips, a hint
of teeth & the poets who
turn it into flowers and sun,
make it animals and dreams,
who see the rapture in you
leave me wondering if they
- 28 notes
In a moment’s fury
I hated you, stole
your heart, and dug
into your flesh, pulled
and you never noticed.
You kept smiling, talking,
told me you loved
said we should marry.
I wonder, I must,
what might occur if
I stole your soul.
If you would notice.
If souls are real.
I’m scared to try.
- 59 notes
There are sadder words in English —
Deeper too, that rend and tear,
But: “I used to be a poet”
Holds bleakness all its own.
- 38 notes
Every time I see you
You seem half-bent
Broken under your need
Masquerading as destruction
“I’m not like you,” you say
Too clear face sun-bright
But you never tell me
What you think I am
- 22 notes
- 23 notes
There is a moment before the burning begins. The brief, fragile hope that you might escape, might not burn, that even fire can be kind.