Below are the 15 most recent journal entries recorded in a_narrative's LiveJournal:

Sunday, November 18th, 2007
8:05 pm	With a few dashes of a brush across a blank canvas, the universe was formed. And not some haphazard, last second universe as conceived by a deity on the run - this was a universe of unparalleled detail and precision in only a few strokes. It had seemed like an eternity, sitting, pondering, wondering as well as a deity can over the various hypothesises of a nascent existence. In time, though, it was time - in an instant of pure, clear vision, the deity sliced the canvas of void with the tool of his craft - then it was done. Pleased with his hard work, he reclined. Reaching up, he spread the canvas of his creation over his head, gazing with pride at the beauty come of his own mind. Shortly, and for some time (some very long time, for a tired deity does not take sleep lightly) the deity fell to a snooze. Quietly purring the exhaustion of his mental exercise of the past couple of eternities, his mind drifted from consciousness down, down, down into the oblivion of dream, that shadowy realm of black gauze and linty dust. In this, he dreamt (as all must do to travel through the oblivion of dream to reach the other side), and in his dream he saw a point of minuscule light in the vast canvas that had been the source of his exhaustion. In this dream, he was pulled from his reclining posture, through the surface of the canvas stretched out above him. Between planets and stars, traveling on stellar winds and the trails of comets, bouncing from asteroid to asteroid, the deity delighted in the beauty of his own creation - the extent and depth of which surprised even him. That part of the story ends here, of course. It continues on to some extent hereafter with the deity's further exploration of his own brilliant creation - but much of it is of boring, self-congratulatory stock. What really concerns us is the creation itself - thus while the deity wanders the void patting himself on his broad, omnipresent back, we must continue on to describe the creation itself, and the drama contained within. In his travels looking at this that and the other thing which he had created, the Deity never stopped to look at the little things. On many of the planets he had created there were (Comment on this)
Sunday, November 4th, 2007
10:47 pm	The effects of attunement with the Body Cosmic can be reversed. An extended stay planetside, extended mental stasis without biostasis - anything that allows the tissues in the body to regenerate and cycle out without accumulating more cosmic energy. However, the power of the Body Cosmic can, and most likely will, be responsible for permenant mental damage. The power may be drained from the individual, but not the madness. These days, no traveler is allowed to offworld for any longer than a month at a time - and even then, their ships and suits must be properly shielded before doing so. All these reduces the amount and duration of exposure to the effects of open space travel. Such measures are necessary, made apparent by a quick excursion into the history of space travel. In the early days, before the issue of the Body Cosmic were apparent, travelers would roam to the far reaches of the solar system, only to return disturbed. These were in the first days of light travel, when fuel issues were more of a problem then then they are now. Whereas these days spacefarers can jaunt several AU in a single burn (the solar system, being approx 100 AU in diameter, can be jumped over the course of 2 months in short bursts from fuel station to fuel station), in those days with few refueling stations and accurate maps and charts, it was quite possible to become lost in the void for a very, very long time. With ample supplies and the right luck, one of these lost souls would return, changed, planetside. (6,454,861 MPH at max burn, approx - that's across the solar system in 2 months (60 days). 92,956,000 miles in a single AU - speed of light, 670,616,629.2 MPH roughly: .0000001549 % the speed of light at max burn) The changes were attributed to the then unnamed phenom of the Body Cosmic. Attempts were made to harness the change for... certain purposes that lead to great destruction on several worlds. Since then, experimentation and exposure to the element has been limited a great deal. Of course, you still have people wandering out to the far rim of space in search of the power the phenomenon promises, thinking themselves fit to deal with the consquences of madness that come with it. ... (Comment on this)
11:20 am	The Body Cosmic: A place in human existence that happens on the edge of space. The division between physical reality and ultimate reality are blurred by the void of space and traveling at near light speeds. Cosmic energy bombards the body, alone in the universe far from the world that bore it, far from the protection of any atmosphere and without a greater, planetary magnetic field to shield it. Attaining any level of the Body Cosmic brings an individual to a new state of consciousness, new heights of awareness. Feats of reality-bending will are common place around one attuned to the Body Cosmic, though at the same time, questions of sanity and stablity come to question. The awareness brought by attunement also brings with it derangements that equal in intensity. Varying forms of insanity are common amongst those attuned to the Body Cosmic. It can be avoided - of course. Attunement, that is. Long trips into space should be followed by a just as long stay Planetside. Flying while in some form of bio-suspension. Magnetic shielding, sub light travel - all of these things are conventions in the ubiquitous space trade that fills the sol systems. These days, those who seek the Body Cosmic are those foolishly in search for overwhelming power. The radiation that exudes from one attuned to the Body Cosmic can be stored... used later, given intention by others through external means without fear of insanity. Just power. (Comment on this)
11:09 am	Herein ends the ramblings, whereforth issues musings. (Comment on this)
Sunday, April 15th, 2007
1:50 am	I want to stand on the rubble, soot black rain beating my face, pushing hair out of my eyes so I can squint into the wind. I want the storm clouds over me to rumble quietly, glowing occasionally, with the sound of a passing storm. The quiet is here, now. The violence is over, the yelling, the torment, the anguish - it's all over. People wake up from the ash, the great stone and steel foundations of our great society litter the ground as carelessly as pebbles cast haphazard over a playground. Because that's what it all is, truly. Just a playground. A playground for children who forgot their childhood, a playground for whom hide-and-go-seek transcended gamehood and became a matter of life-and-death. But I want to burn that all down... I want the buildings to fall, and I want man to fall with them. Fall back to the ground, where you belong: two feet, two eyes, two hands. Mostly, I just want quiet. I want all this suffering to go away. (Comment on this)
Saturday, February 24th, 2007
1:11 am	In the beginning: There were ELVES! Then. There was darkness. Fire FELL from the sky. Then... there were... ROBOTS! (more soon) (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 17th, 2006
12:54 am	It was an age of contradiction - the harshest imaginable. The world was full of wonders: great scientific, philosphical, spiritual, and political achievements; but all these seemed to only make the darker side of the world more intense by comparison. All that was ever good in this age seemed to seed an opposite that was evil by the same intensity. Poverty, oppression, ignorance: these were all commonplace in the world. While the high morals of Wonder were held on high for all to see, the reality was that most lived in a grey haze of apathetic, averted gazed motivated by survivalist and self-interested instincts. Even within families, individuals would strive against each other in an effort to come out on top. This would boil over into the community, then to the towns, cities, states, nations, then the whole world itself. Whole countries appeared to struggle against each other in a frenzied fight for breathing space. The strangest part of all this was that, given a moment's rest, the nations and peoples of the world would have discovered that there was plenty of air - plenty of world to go around. Historically, we can start this decline of nature into chaos with a look at Tegaran culture. On the westerly end of the landmass in ancient times was the sprawling Gydian empire. This empire started from a tiny tribe in the small Istmus of Igyle. They took it upon themselves to unite their surrounding villages into a centralized system of city states to improve trade and defense against non-aligned groups. After a while the Igyle region became a small, powerful nation with a standing army and a reasonably unifed philosophical core. United under a single ideology, it was only natural that the Gydian people would desire to spread their "enlightened ways." It didn't take very long before the entire Astalan region was subjugated, then the Ryxian penninsula, then the Castagan region. Surprizingly, there was very little resistance. The Gydian philosophy focused more on administration and organization of a Republic system. This sort of reform was actually quickly adapted to by neighbors. Any sort of violence was the cause of infighting as the old regime was toppled for the newer, democratic ideals of the Gydian philosophy. A great Empire was formed. Strongest in allegiance were the people of the Northern Astalan region, forming the very heart of the Gydian Empire. Somewhat removed from the politics of the Empire Proper were the darker reaches of the mysterious Castagan region. While claimed by Gydian law, Castagan remained somewhat of a lawless enigma for its duration. Deceivingly difficult forest terrain made for difficulty in improving infrastructure - roads never reached isolated Castagan villages and towns beyond the north of the region. Ryx, however, is a different story. When first encountered, the Ryx had already developed a strong trade based governmental system - those who controlled the the most valuable assets were the most powerful. The seat of power was determined literally by supply and demand. Already, before the arrival of the Gydian army, this system had given way to corrupt Oligarchs seizing control of all available resources, binding up economies and depriving citizens of precious food and other valuables. The Gydians, ever masters of subjugation, allowed the Ryx to maintain their trade-based society, but invited them to try a more democratic solution to their corruption issue. With the help of Gydian military, the Ryx were able to remove the their corrupt Guildmasters and Oligarchs by force, and a new system was enstated. In return for a periodic tribute, the Gydian government promised the support of the Ryx independent authority and protection from invasion and other such bothers. So far, this doesn't sound so bad. The influx of an otherwise peaceful philosophy of coexistance and social ideals enlightening the barbarian tribes surrounding a shining citadel of achievement. Of course, given mortal falibility, this sort of thing could only last so long. The natural instinct for individuals to herd overcame the stability of the empire in time. With success comes infrastructure. With infrastructure comes mobility. Before civilization, many found it nigh on impossible to travel very far at all. Civilization came in spots along what roads there were, and between was more likely to take your life than propel it forward. Suddenly a swelling middle class with resources to spend on leisure appeared while simultaneously those with less to spend found themselves able to seek new opportunities elsewhere. The first conflict this caused was the influx of the dark haired, pale skinned Castagan peoples into the Gydian heartland - a place inhabited by those of ruddier skin and light hair. The people of the Castagan were also much more slight of frame in contrast with the substantial constitution of the Astalan peoples - couple this with the Castagan instinct for eurditic study versus the agrarian culture of the Astalan people and great conflict ensued. For a while, it appeared that many of the high government positions were going to the generally better educated Castagan while the Astalan - people from the Gydian homeland itself - were stuck in the fields around the capital. This backfired in a harsh anti-Castagan sentiment within the Gydian homeland. Harsh racism ensued leaving those of Castagan isolated to ethnic communities and barred from public forums and certain businesses and other establishments. ------------ Current Mood: awake Current Music: Imogen Heap - The Moment I Said It (Comment on this)
Monday, June 12th, 2006
1:56 am	Empty and devoid yet teeming with life unseen. Mostly unseen, anyways. It terrifies me, the sea does. So vast and wide open, it's a blank landscape, nothing for the eye to see but nothing and nothing. Somewhere beyond the horizon was the shore upon which I used to stand in the mornings and evenings of my days on the land. There, staring out into the infinite sunsets and sunrises, I would pause on the brink of hyperventilation. My mind, my lungs... all halted on the edge of the most supreme sense of being overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by nothing? Now there's a silly concept... yet every day at the same time, it would almost happen... almost happen. The sea terrified me. Ask me now why I'm sitting on a tiny boat several days out from any shore that I know of and I'll probably laugh and try to paddle away with my arms. There mere thought of it startles me. Paddling with arms that is. The mere thought of dipping my solid arm into a liquid vastness... it's like a futile attempt to move the ocean, to push it with my hand. Is it me that is still while the water moves? Or does the water stay still while I move? Who is the lord and who is the subjugate? The easy answer to that question would be me. Or rather, I am the subjugate... subject to the fancy of the seas - exposure, storms, drowning, riptide, whirlpool, all those wonderful-but-deadly phenomena. So what am I doing out here, anyways? There was a boat on my shore. It must have been there for years, I must have walked over it hundreds of times and never known... a great storm ravaged our coast for several days, the surf was higher than anyone could ever remember. It stripped the shore of all its sand, leaving previously hidden rocks and coral skeletons to bake until a calmer see brought the sands back. I found it several days after the storm, a small wooden outrigger lodged under a black sea-boulder perhaps six feet below the normal sand height. Excited, I worked it out from under the rock, scraping at the pebbly sand and stone until my fingers bled. I dragged it out into the sun and examined it. Almost perfect... it couldn't have been here for long. Where it came from was anyone's clue. I saved it under the ancient stone docks but a few yards away. I locked it away in an empty shed beneath the disregarded engineering. No one could know that I had it, it would be destroyed. I spent the next few days in a suspicious silence. I didn't stay out too long, didn't raise my voice once, nor did I even go back to the beach - it seems absurd now, but I was terrified that some slight error in my actions would result in the instant divination of my hidden find. For a week, I began to swipe dry foods from our pantry. I took them to my room and hid them in a cloth under my cot. I filched a discared ply of wood from behind the carpenters and took it into the canopy where I fashioned it the best I could into a paddle. I hid it under a stone and some branches on the path between my home and the shore. I waited for a full moon - the brightest night possible. When that pregant moon rolled through the sky and through my window, I knew it was my chance. In half a breath, I had my shoes on and had already slipped from window of my room into the canopy. Throught the trees, past the dunes and through the tall beach grass and there I was. The massive, crumbling stone docks - a place forbidden to my kind would now be the gateway to my freedom. I ran to the large storage space under the stone archways and pushed open the damp wooden door. There it was, in the far corner of the huge room was the boat that the sea had uncovered for me. I dragged it out onto the shore and sat in it, facing the sea. Directly before me was the full moon, casting a trail of pale light on the water and darkening my sillouette behind me to make a shadow darker than shadow. With infinite subtlety, the water caressed the sides of my boat. White, liquid lace ran along the sides and behind me. Sitting straight up, I dug my makeshift paddle into the sands and began to push it forwards. In a trance, each movement I made was obesiance paid to the wide goddess of the fathoms. I felt the boat buck as the water rose high enough to lift it from the sand. My heart jumped so fast I nearly rolled out of the boat to clamber back to the sands. The sudden shock of cold sea water drilled me out of my instincts long enough to fasten my boat to the tide. And that was it, with hardly a chance to protest, I was taken by the sea. Kidnapped by the sea. After a certain point, I found myself without sight of land. The moon was low on the horizon and the red fire of the sun was beginning to ignite the black of the night. I found my eyes shutting. Slightly at first, then I would leave myself for a moment in a fog, then return halfway to a sleeping position. Finally, when sleep came, I only knew by the loss of my paddle and the sudden change in the position of the sun. Thirsty, I dipped my hand into ocean and sipped its cool... A piece of the vastness in my own. How does one obtain infinity in portioned amounts? The thirst inspired in me by the sun, I looked to other matters... being high noon, the sun could tell me no secrets about what direction my travels were in. Perhaps in a few hours, I could tell, but until then, all was a mystery. No sight of land could be made upon the ring of horizon around me and there was not a single cloud in the sky. I idly paddled with my hands, with that my paddle had long since floated away since my sleep. In my idleness, it occured to me that I did not feel any ounce of fear, nor was I in any way overwhelmed by my station. I felt... right, in a sense. I was in the right place... where I needed to be. In the middle of nowhere, yet... in the midst of it all. And with the sun directly overhead, it would be some time before I could have an idea of where nowhere actually was... Enjoy it, I realized. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 3rd, 2006
7:42 pm	(I should be writing a final) --- So it comes to me this night... stormy night. Alone on the edge of my bed, alone though not the only one in the room. His quiet breathing barely ruffles the white sheets. White on white, lightnight strikes somewhere distant outside, spashing light on my reflective sheets. Graces my pale, bare thighs from my window. Is gone. White turns back to white. I stand, silent in my nothing. I step to the door, ajar, and open it with barely a whine. Into the cold hall, the pads of my feet on the cold wooden floor, slender fingers tracing the white walls of a dim hallway. A cold draft from under the front door when I pass. Goosebumps up the back of my legs, I keep my silent pace. Kitchen and lightning. For a moment, all the glass, silverware and flatware gleam. The white tiles swell against their black counterparts. The light retracts, the world turns pitch for a few moments, save for the single red light across the darkness of the room. It moves. (not now...) I'm locked, my bare feet frozen to the chilly woodpaneled floor. The red light shifts, dim shapes fill the kitchen. Twisted lines play in my periphial vision. A huge black cat plays in the nothing. Silently, it jumps from table to floor, pads closer, it knows I know. My fingers tighten around the spear that wasn't there a moment ago (who cares? my adrenaline rubs the questions from my mind) It's just me and him... black on black, knuckles white and claws carefully etching the floor in prepartory patterns. I kneel, ready to dodge, jump, duck, whatever. I put my free hand to the door jamb to steady me as I take my stance. My arm muscles tense... ...it was nothing... Quiet as the rain returns, hitting the glass window. The light from the answering machine... Taking a breath, I shake the tension out of my would be hunters arm, brush the hair from my face. Sigh. (why did I come out here in the first place?) Cold air swirls over my bare skin as I open the fridge. I dip my arm into the cold and remove a carton of milk. Skim. Popping open the triangle that keeps the liquid in, I put the furry lip of the opening to my own - cold milk slides into my mouth, gathers at the back and waits for a split moment before spilling down my throat into the warm, cold dividing it before melting away. Melting into me... I put the carton down, let my cold fingers trace my bare belly, goosebumps follow them, then receed. (a message on the machine?) (Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 25th, 2006
3:34 am	Take a glass of milk. Heat it and let it cool. Observe the film that forms at the brim. This is the world. Take a slender, finely pointed object and puncture that skin. Swirl the object around once, briskly. A broken skin on milk, the shattered multicolored glaze of oil on the surface of water, destroyed by an errant particle, soild and quickly. This is the world. With a mere half inch of concentration aimed at the right point in reality and that's it - it all comes tumbling down. That's what really scares me sometimes... I load myself into my sedan for work, today is the quiet sort of day that calls for a mug of hot chocolate by the fireplace. Unfortunately, in these times, it seems that the time for such things isn't in the cards. I pull into the parking lot of the library, windshield wipers coming to an abrupt stop with the car (I was always told to turn them off before killing the rest of the beast, I never really saw the point). The library. It's large, municipal, very old. My job is to repair old book bindings. Hardly the glamorous job you'd expect to see in Antiques, unfortunately. I take old, broken volumes like Men are from Mars, etc. and basically rebind with tape. Keeps the covers in place, presentable. It seems that in a staff comprised of mostly ancient women and disinterested collegiate types, I'm the only one with either hand or mind steady for such a task. (I was never really the collegiate type. I pray I'll never be the ancient woman type either) Idly, I scratch something into an empty box on my timesheet. I never actually check, you know, I more or less copy the number I've written into the box above it from the day before. I'll do this when I leave and again tomorrow morning. So I've been doing since the first day I started working here, two years ago. I'm disinterested. Couldn't you tell? It's why I didn't opt for college (no point, eh?), it's why I didn't seek higher job training (why bother, it's just money), I have no friends beyond a few faces with fewer names between them, no love interest, my family hard knows I exist. Exist, that's a funny word. Sometimes I wonder if I was born numb, that my fingertips are missing a good deal of their sensory material and I'd never know the difference because it's all I'd ever known. Sometimes I'd wonder if I was meant to be born at all (in all seriousness, no self pity here). I've never felt as though I had any business being around, like I'm the world's population plus one extra, I sneezed at the right time and skipped my karma - the universe isn't sure of what to do with me. I guess not having a purpose would explain why the world slips around and through me like a blur, I can't really relate. Halfway through my morning, I find another one, a stray like me. Every now and then, in the wheeled cart they provide for me full of the day's rescuees, there's a lost cause, a book so badly broken that it's meant for the toss pile. I take them home, someone sneezed, skipped their karma. This one is exceptionally old, cover beaten from a maroon to a wheatcracker pattern white on whiter red. It's been rebound several times, strips of heavy black string-tape hold the eroded cover to the old mustard crisp of pagebinding. It smells of vinegar. Embalmers' Fluid. I flip through the first few pages - aside from a heavy tinge of yellow acid, blank. It's so old it must be one of those books that have a chapter of blankspace for whatever reason. I carefully slide it into my bag, then continue my work. Lunch comes, I can't remember the last time I felt that the strain of my work warranted me a break or food. I skip it, leave half an hour earlier as per usual. Walking through the void of rain that isn't rain, I reach for my car door handle. Grey fog looms in the sky, illuminated from behind by the sun. It's bright enough to cause me to squint, yet there's no sun, the world is still marshmellow grey. Stop. Something stops me, though I couldn't tell you what. Don't do it. A strange feeling, so deep in my gut that it might not even be there... stop moving, don't do it, you'll do it... What? Crippling fear overcomes me, my hand is wound tight 30 seconds of an inch from the car door. Conciousness rushes back to my through that image. Car. Handle. Door. Hand, arm, mind, brain, life. Bam. And it returns, a calm sense of decrepid normalcy. I take the handle and turn it upwards, the door looses with a dull knock. A mere fraction of a moment before then, it was as though another inch forward would have completely ruined... everything. What? I drive home, heart pounding. Stoplight, stop. White line, pedestrian, green light, foot on the gas carefully, eyes for other drivers, cross lanes, turn, turn, turn, accelerate, stop, turn, roll to a stop. I turn the key ing the ignition, my palms sweaty. Click, pocket. Okay. Open door, step out, foot on wet asphalt. Good. Walking up the lawn, through the wet grass, check. Hand on doorknob. Then I see it. I see me. In the reflection of the brass doorknob is me - distorted, warped, though still oddly symetrical. My hand, again 30 seconds of an inch from the knob, and I'm stuck at my reflection in the knob. Golden features slide around on a subtle surface, tanned gold hair, gold lines of the face, the infinite fillament wiring of my fingerprints on the tips of my finger. Touch. Cold, damp, turn the knob. Was that really me? And that's when you fell through the world. ------------- Current Music: Imogen Heap - The Moment I Said It (Comment on this)
Friday, April 21st, 2006
8:24 pm	A pane of cold shatters against his back. Thrown against it, he penetrates the thin barrier - feels sharpness for an instant, then nothing, then the cold swallows him whole. Liquid fingers slide outwards from his spine and wrap around him, clutching him lightly as they met in the middle of his torso. Gentle yet firm, these fingers held him in a breathless gasp - he was helpless against it as it pulled him further. The cold slid like a glacer over mountains, it submerged his chest and crashed against his neck like a wave of broken glass. As it filled the space between his chin and shoulders, all feeling disappeared, as though as it rose, his skin melted away into the singular sensation. Over his chin and into his mouth, into his nose and over his widened eyes. His legs slid in like the keel of a sinking ship, quietly into the depths it would go with only a bubble or two as the its tow passed into oblivion. He was drowning. He could see the sun still, filtering through the surface of the water, he was steadly becoming accustomed to the temperature. The fact that his lungs were screaming for air didn't seem to worry him, nor did the fact that his limbs felt both as numb and dense as rotten wood. Down, down he sank, that unearthly hand forever pulling him down. He had no thoughts, only the quiet, frenzied grasping of a mind too shell shocked to function fully. This went almost unnoticed. The light blue gave way to deep blue, the filtered light of the sun became little more than a haze. A strange smile crossed over his face - conflicting throughts of melted butter and spanish opera flickered over his futile mind. Haze melted away into a shallow curve of lighter than average color. A placid smile on his face, his body so numb that all he could feel was the slow, regular pounding of his heart. The slow, jarring force of his center systematically expanding and contracting, keeping his body alive. How long have I been falling? How far until the bottom? Never once did it occur to him to ask how he had arrived there in the first place... those two questions were the only that could muster the strength to drift into his conscious thoughts. It perhaps once or twice occured to him, however, to clench his fist, but that too passed out of being... just downwards, silently and gently smiling he disappeared. (Comment on this)
Monday, March 6th, 2006
2:14 pm	Somewere beyond a fog is a small lake. It's hardly deep, perhaps not much higher than your ankles at the shore, barely halfway up your shins at the middle. Beneath the blue surface is a silt of fine sand a pebbles. Tiny fish dart about between and beyond the shore grass. In the middle of this little, shallow lake is a stone. It protrudes at such a height and such a shape that one might think it to be a seat. Flat on the top and tapering outwards only slightly, the water in which it sits laps up quietly against its silent grey hide. Around this little, shallow lake are trees of the darkest shadow. The barrier of non-light falls so thick from the eaves that very little can pass through. Above, the dark sky is betrayed a quarter full moon - neither on the wax nor wane. It hangs abruptly in the sky, interrupting the voiceless congress of stars, whispering over the vacancies between them. Only the occassional cool breeze interrupts the crickets and disrupts the glass of the shallow lake. When it does though, the noise of the night stops and the moonlight upon the water is shattered into a million little fingernail crescents that fall through the surface and onto the fine silt below it. Mysterious pebbles smile in the filtered light, for a moment. ...for a moment. Just for a moment. Then you come back. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 28th, 2006
11:09 am	"I'm a sketch," he said. He looked up, grinning wryly from his drawing sheaf. "You know, one of those conjurers of shapes and colors... well, not colors. I don't work in colors. Just lines." His long hair, a mass of tangled, nearly matted black, moved with the wind. A few stray strands flew about free from the jumble. "Why are you here," he asked, "I usually prefer to work alone." He recieved no answer. "Very well then, I suppose you can stay and watch so long as you're quiet, and don't disturb me." His arm went back to work, sliding over the page quickly to get its bearing again before lashing the incomplete form with more lines, defining the image stroke by stroke as the moments wore on. "The idea is... not to finish the piece... that is to say, never draw the eye... Without eyes, the spirit cannot see. Without sight, the spirit does not know it exists. Life is always lurking directly under the canvas, paper, or stone," he paused, sizing up his drawing for proportions, contours, and composition. "I'm still an amature, unfortunately... even if I put eyes to my drawings, they never come to life. The spirit is ashamed to lift itself from my page. My calls lack coherence. The confidence is there, see, if you'd look at my stroke, but... I haven't the language to call it forth." He closed his pad and set it to his side. He seemed... reticent about his true thoughts on his station in development. "Eventually, I'll get there. Until then... well, I'll have to be content with merely passing as a sketch." It was true. By his line, he had great strength and will, however... without the control to tell his stroke where to land upon the page, he would amount to nothing. (Comment on this)
Friday, February 24th, 2006
2:28 pm	I never really had much eduation about the world as I was growing up. I was always interested, yes, however, it was never really deemed important by my tutors. I learned bits and pieces of various random things, sometimes I'd see a map, but not much longer than it took for it sift out of my memory within only a few minutes of it being put away. Sometimes I'd dream of writing my own map, creating my own world as I traveled, meeting new people, seeing new things and understanding new concepts from new minds. The further I go, the less new everything gets. I guess I sort of just travel around and let everything slip through me, like water through a seive, to use an overused metaphor. Everywhere that I've been before this place now sort of runs together in a podge of nothing really distinct or discernable. Foot, train, horse, camel, zeppelin, if can move, I've traveled by it. Countless countries, countless languages... I'm probably multi-linguistic, a polyglot, if you will... I just can't be bothered to remember any of it. Lazy, I guess. Sloth. Doesn't seem to serve me any purpose. It all seems... moot, I suppose. All this detail, that is. God. It feels good to sit up here. Quietly, in the company of the wind on this lone hilltop. Yes, a quaint, mass produced scene - my hair fluttering in the breeze, sun warm on my back and the city at my feet, miles and miles away yet still visible as a piece of glass in the lawn, glinting in the light. Just beyond its limits, the infinite ocean smudged into finity by the horizon, then the sky blue, clear save for a few rapscalious clouds chasing each other back towards me and finally behind me, falling behind the horizon and upsetting the landscape into rolling hills that finally end up under my well worn ass. That is to say, I sit alot. God, how many countries have I seen in my travels? I can't even remember... What language did they speak back there? I have no idea... Perhaps I should start off with something a little bit simpler - "How long have I been here?" ...I have no idea. None. I don't seem to be able to retain anything. It usually takes me remembering this fact to realize that it's time for me to go again... So I turn my back on Klypsopologist, or whatever it was, and begin walking away, away from the sea and over the hills. (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 23rd, 2006
11:40 pm	As I walk through the station, steam erupts from deep within the engine's core. Where it comes from is unimportant to the poor slob caught in its heat. All that matters is that the steam is there, and that it must be accomodated for. Such is how it is with my existance. I am here, and my origin is not of consequence, only the fact that I am here is of any importance. That is to say, that I am of any importance at all. Which is not a matter of importance in itself. I arrived here not too long ago. Perhaps an hour ago, maybe even just twenty minutes ago... again, unimportant. I'm here now, and will be until I am gone, no sense in quantifying something without discernable limits or observable end. Workers and hurried passengers scurry about me. Some trying to pay their rent, some of the others shirking that responsibility for a few days of "R&R" as they call it. Others search for new opportunities while others yet are here to reap the benefits of others' hard work. Silly thing, this civilization is. We look down on ants and laugh, sometimes. Marveling at what seems like mechanical, animal stupidity, moving grains of sand across vast distances - hardly a fingernail's width to us, exerting their miniscule lifespans in order to do such menial tasks. But here I am, the moron with no direction or purpose in his life standing around in a train station laughing at all the people who actually have something to occupy their minds with. /// Naming. The mother of ten thousand things. How does one put a name to the billions of sights and sounds available to the poor sense orifices in the head and hands. As I step out into the bustling streets of a city yet nameless (I was asleep on the train, what do you want?) in a country whose name escapes me (I move around alot, sue me) ruled by lords whose names I probably can't pronounce, I wonder, do I really want to know? A small boy rides past me in a single wheeled vehicle. He sits within the circle of metal framing a resinous wheel. What is it called? Who invented it? Is it common to this region? I haven't the slightest idea. I haven't even focused on the noise yet to see if I can make out whether or not the language is discernable. Pity, it is. Sometimes, I find myself in a completely foreign land, unable to understand the simplest of descriptions, explainations, introductions, or orders. A land so foreign, I can't name the source of the smells reaching my nose, or the style of music filling my ears, or sort of weather caressing my skin. It is in these lands that I feel the most free... like a baby again - I'm not burdened by too much knowledge. It's almost overwhelming. ...well, it is overwhelming, actually. Rather overwhelming after a certain point. You can only blunder around like a baby for so long. The novelty wears off and soon you find that under it's romantic, foreign covers, it's still as hairy as the last country you slept through. Time to go. So you travel, trying to find the ultimate experience in otherworldliness, that worldshattering experience that will help you throw off your jaded precision... You get a jolt now and again, but the harder you search and further you go, the harder it will become for you to appreciate that new sensation when you find it. Because now, you're just a god damned cynic. Klisylopolis. Greek derivative. Somethingsomething-city. If you've never been to Greece, don't worry. You really aren't missing much. What's strange though, about this name, is that Klisylopolis is nowhere near Greece, nor do any of the people here have any idea what a Greece is, unless you mean grease, which by all means, is obviously the mysterious black substance that makes this armpit work. Right, I should mention that. Klis (hereby dubbed because I'm too damned lazy to pay linguistic obesiance) is the clockwork capital of this known world. Steamworks, gearworks, clockworks, automatons, whatever, you name it, they have it. How do I know this? Three seconds of conversation picking. I already know that there are three different ethnic groups, two languages (each with their own collections of regional dialects), trade dealings with just about the whole rest of the world, and enough political tension to make me get back on the train. That is, if I had any coin on me that wasn't stamped with the face of Denauszi the Denouncer, the greatest war criminal known in these lands, responsible for massacre after massacre in some century long war that happened before the modern concept of "diplomacy" was invented. Where I just slid in from, Denauszi, or Denautzi the Loyal, as he's known there, is their national hero. Mythical, some might say. So. Unless I want to get deported to some hypothetical submerged municipality, I'm as good as flat broke. So yes, Klis, conversation picking. One can generally get a very good sense of the mis en scene (that's french, from another boring country) of any given situation from the general conversation of the others out and about, however, it's the little things that elude you until you learn the hard way. Such as, the tendancies for Klisian women to dress in a very flattering, attention getting manner only to slap you for paying them attention. Or being chided for being a lazy jobless bum... after asking around for jobs. A world of contradiction. Enough to make a cynic out of even the hardest of cynics. Also, Klisian people tend to enjoy color to an almost absurd extent. (Comment on this)