Writing - A Dream of Glass and Fiendlight

 Writing - A Dream of Glass and Fiendlight

I had a strange dream.

I was an alchemist in a strange place, treating sore wounds and sickness in many.

Salid taught me the language of the clay peoples, and I spoke with people from every walk in every colour and of all needs.

Even a bandit who wanted treatment. I told him I'd not treat a person of violence. 

But he called me a person of violence. 

Said I came from a land of burning winds. I told him that was true, but I had left that life behind to come here and to die.

He challenged me to a duel. 

And we fought in the market sands, as the sun fell before the three-moon night.

I slit his throat with a lapnar knife.

Thousands saw, so they dragged me to the dowager empress of glass for punishment. But she showed kindness.

She asked me to make a tincture to stop her blood quickening. And she asked so kindly. 

So I did.

I should not have. For while it was what she wanted, it caused her heart great anguish.

I watched her crying, torn between duty and love, surrounded by the public.

I woke, and said aloud, "Never shall I craft the fiendlight again". 

And that was my dream.

Nightmares - Daughter

Nightmares - Daughter

I had a dream. A nightmare, a dream, of a nightmare, a moment, a stillness, a life, a question.

No answers.

No. Answers. No. Answers. No.

Dreams - Nihilism

Dreams - Nihilism

Just woke from one of the most Nihilistic dreams I've ever had. Lay in bed for an hour, sightlessly staring at the ceiling wondering what it all means.

Poetry - A Boy Has A Right To Dream

Poetry - A Boy Has A Right To Dream

A boy has the right to dream.
Endless Possibilities stretch out before him.
What awaits him down the path he will choose?
The boy doesn't know.
Before he knows it, the boy has become an adult...
... and he learns what he was able to make of himself.
Joy and Sadness accompany this.
When this happens, does he bid his past farewell in his
heart?
Once a Boy Becomes an adult, he cannot go back to being a
boy.
The boy is now a man.
Only one thing can be said: A boy has the right to dream.
Endless possibilities stretch out before him
All men were once boys.

Creux - Essence

Creux - Essence

Sometimes you write something that makes no sense.  Actually I write a lot of things that make no sense.  I have to toe a strange line between both being absolutely clear in the execution of my communication, but also give it a sense of artistic styling to convey how it should feel.

Sometimes I get it right.

Sometimes I get it wrong.

Connection - Subway Girl

Connection - Subway Girl

I stand with eyes closed, and the ripple play of a violin etches its way through my body.  I can feel rhythms from the top of my head down through to the soles of my feet.  Again, again.  Rhythmic and motion, a push and pull.  The casual grip of fingers through touch-less gloves as the ebb and twist of the subway cars bounce me like a bow string, legs bend and straighten, and my weight drifts on the flowing river of steel.  I am no longer he who is remembered, but a force of nature.

My mind slips away.

Writing - Can We be Lovers and Not Have Sex

Writing - Can We Be Lovers and Not Have Sex

From http://www.elephantjournal.com/2013/10/can-we-be-lovers-not-have-sex/

Sixed - Interlude 2 - NaNoWriMo

Sixed - Interlude2 - NaNoWriMo

Interlude 2

“Do dolphins dream of an electric sea to save lost souls?”

I miss her.

I drifted between here and there. Lines of code flowed through me, unending in beauteous streams of falling digital water. Each one was a thing, a life, a person, a moment. They cascade all around me, entwined like a spider’s web across time and place, linkages between forgotten pieces of recollection. They are once things, now the digital memories of being forgotten.

Hearing - Sound

Hearing - Sound

Sometimes when I close my eyes, in the silence of darkness...I can hear music.  It sounds like such a strange thing, but I think I can hear the life around me ebb and flow.  I hear the sounds of wind rushing past life, it cascades and swirls around my mind.  I can hear the breathing and the heartbeats of a million souls.  There is a kind of casual peace to them, a growth and reworking of hammer to anvil.

A friend of mine, is preparing to teach children soon.  One of the constraints on the position of her teaching is that she cannot touch on a number of subjects.  One of the constraints, is that she cannot teach instruments.  Singing is alright but there are no instruments permitted where she teaches.  She cannot even show them how to make maracas.  I wonder what music sounds like to them.

Do they hear it the same way I do?  Do they hear strands of creation in the vibrancy of tone?  Is it all just noise the way some things are?  Have they been taught to tune it out, that it has no worldly existence at all?

I wonder what they would think if the heard the things in my mind.

Sometimes at sunset, I can hear music.  A violin plays across the wind, just barely audible.  I shift the balance of my body to hear it better, straining and yet still.  I can hear it, my head tilts ever so slightly, imperceptibly towards it.  I nod and continue to listen to the people around me, overhear their conversations, consider their words.  But I hear.  I hear music.  Tone and song, it's so far away, quicksilver, mercurial.

What do you hear?

Dream - Vault Valentine

I walked as a ghost through your life.  A strange thing with empty thoughts, passing through corridors of perhaps and maybe.  Equally on both hands, the possibility of what was and could have been.  I saw the friends, the trials, the mundane and the lovers.  I felt little, for we were but passing friends as children, I had no investiture in what you were or what you were becoming.

It was a casual kind of interest, a curiosity without caring.  Moving through places I'd never been before, how our lives had diverged!  What to say though, should ever we meet, what could I possibly comment on or think to mention.  But silence as we passed, strangers to one another on the train.

Am I so different?

Are you?

I came upon a place I'd never been, passing through walls.  It was dark and smelled of old cardboard, dusty and damp, faded around the edges.  I poked at a few boxes, walked across the concrete and thought what might have brought me here when I came upon a sealed case.  Sharp iron edges adorned it, and a heavy steel ring of numbers on the front.  Curiosity warred within me, and experimentally I spun the dial.  Two clicks to my ear where I should have heard four.

I ran my fingers over the cold metal, and then on an impulse lifted the heavy thing up and on its back.  There taped to the bottom, a faded brown piece of paper with the numbers scrawled in your handwriting.  With a casual twist, the safe opens and inside are shoeboxes filled with paper.  Statements, forms, invoices, information.  Uninteresting, a canvas of normality to life.  Tucked away in the back, a small plastic bag with a handful of scraps in it.

I pause then, without knowing why.

A tiny, faded little red piece of paper.  My handwriting there, and a little glittering sticker.

The memory is elusive, I cannot remember making it, but it sits here alone in your world.

I shut the safe, and vanish though shadows into waking.

Dreams - Cat

Dreams - Cat

A curious dream that felt more like a memory.  I dreamt of a white cat that accompanied me everywhere, eyes of green and a sanguine languidity to her every motion.  We sat and talked for a long time, of dejection, and fresh fish.  We walked long through a jungle of concrete, abandoned and quiet, where mildew and rain were friends, where the shuffle of gravel and the calls of gulls the symphony of our motions. 

Dreams - Don't

Don't - Dreams


A vivid dream I remember well, with arms wrapped around my chest I could just barely smell the scent of her.  It was a moment outside myself, as I felt the contact of someone so other and akin to me.