So, just as an FYI: Yes, I am working on things. Big things. Things made of awesome and win. I think they are, anyway. I'm not dead, I'm not not-writing, etc., etc. I'm currently working on a long-ass post about a sort of origin-story on the Precipitous Bar and the Edge. Two different stories, one of which I've already started before. Not sure how I feel on it, though; I may hold off on that until I'm more comfortable on where it's going.
I'm also starting a new novel project among many other shorter ones. It's a bit out-of-the-ordinary for me, in that it requires some research on my part thanks to the fact that it mostly takes place in the here-and-now and deals with historical fiction. As I'm not a huge history buff, nor really that up on geography/current events as I should be, this can take some work. I'm looking forward to some of it, but more than anything I'm hoping I don't get burned out. Still, as long as I can get some framework down, I think this would be a good project to come back to periodically even if I lose steam part way through.
So fear not, all 2-3 readers of mine! I'm still here, and I hope I will have more coming in the near future. And yes, I'm pretty sure all of the stories to come will be supernatural in some shape or form; despite trying new genres, I don't think I can ever really get the supernatural completely out of my head insofar as the stories I like to tell.
I have, however, decided to stretch my writing muscles a little bit more. I've been doing a few game reviews and other random, often far-too-long posts on G+ recently, mostly involving dreams or funny anecdotes from life (you can see that here if you're so interested, just ask me to add you to my Video Games and/or Dreams circles). I'm hoping to get a few more of these kind of things going as well. I have a couple of options, I hope, to see what I can pull off, but we shall see. Hopefully, there will be more to come should that happen.
So yeah! Hopefully, within the next couple of days, I'll have the opening for the Foxfire Protocols (the novel project) up here to pique interest and get some feedback on the idea. I will probably post the first few chapters, although I may not submit the whole story to the blog. We shall see. Anyway, thanks for reading! The encouragement has been wonderful.
The Truth Behind the Whiskers
(Edit: This somehow got put in Draft instead of Posting. Date should be 8/16/2011. Going to post now, as it's interesting to read at this point as I read back).
It's a personal revelation post! Feel free to ignore if you don't like reading introspective bull shit.
For those of you that don't know (which is probably not many people), I decided to remove the entirety of my facial hair this weekend. To some, I'm sure this is not a big thing, but considering it's been around a decade or so since I've completely removed the chin-fuzz, it was a big deal to most. Heck, it was a big deal to me, but I've had a hard time trying to figure out why.
So I take a look in the mirror a bit ago. This, in itself, is a bit strange: normally, when in front of a mirror, I'm either (a) blind, as I don't have glasses on, (b) washing my hands so I don't pay attention, or (c) shaving/trimming hair, so I'm only paying attention to details. Me standing in front of a mirror simply to look at myself is different. My reaction seems even more strange, though, as I realize that, for a moment, I actually recognize myself, a feeling I haven't had in a while.
For a moment, I'm terribly confused. I've had my face one way for years now, THAT should be the face I recognize. Why do I feel like this is face that I own, not the one I've worn for longer than I really remember (the years have kinda blurred, don't judge me)? I've really never felt like I was staring at a stranger int he mirror before, but there is definitely a sense of "self" I feel now. Before, I was staring a picture, a rendering, but now... Now that's me looking back at me.
It's a personal revelation post! Feel free to ignore if you don't like reading introspective bull shit.
For those of you that don't know (which is probably not many people), I decided to remove the entirety of my facial hair this weekend. To some, I'm sure this is not a big thing, but considering it's been around a decade or so since I've completely removed the chin-fuzz, it was a big deal to most. Heck, it was a big deal to me, but I've had a hard time trying to figure out why.
So I take a look in the mirror a bit ago. This, in itself, is a bit strange: normally, when in front of a mirror, I'm either (a) blind, as I don't have glasses on, (b) washing my hands so I don't pay attention, or (c) shaving/trimming hair, so I'm only paying attention to details. Me standing in front of a mirror simply to look at myself is different. My reaction seems even more strange, though, as I realize that, for a moment, I actually recognize myself, a feeling I haven't had in a while.
For a moment, I'm terribly confused. I've had my face one way for years now, THAT should be the face I recognize. Why do I feel like this is face that I own, not the one I've worn for longer than I really remember (the years have kinda blurred, don't judge me)? I've really never felt like I was staring at a stranger int he mirror before, but there is definitely a sense of "self" I feel now. Before, I was staring a picture, a rendering, but now... Now that's me looking back at me.
Am I the Moon?
She is the wolf, baying at the moon. She cannot reach it, but it comes to her every day. Her want to be with it grows and grows, until she convinces herself that it's not her that wishes for the moon, but the moon that needs her. She runs and runs, howling all the time, but gets no closer.
What is the moon? Well, that is no simple question. The moon is many things; a father or mother, child or sibling; it could be a foreign land, or a hard-sought career; it could even be an unrequited love or personal riches. The point is not what the moon is now, but what it cannot be. It is what is unobtainable, whether that be now or forever, and the wolf finds themselves consumed by the singular desire to have it, despite knowing it can never be.
I am but the rain. I grant the reprieve, however short, masking the moon for a moment, just the time to wonder about everything else. The shadows become aware of each other, the wolf wonders if the moon that hides itself is worth its laments. I fall upon the mountains, and become the river. To those that come to see me, I grant a truth: I bring a reflection, the way to see oneself that, perhaps, they have not seen before.
The wolf came to the waters to find her reflection, and the sustenance of the river. I am but a flow; I follow the path where it may lead. I do not know where I might go, but I know the end, when I must join the others once again and become indiscernible, until the day I reach the sky once more and begin again.
The wolf runs with me. I do not know if its for what I showed her, or what I can provide her, or if she simply loves what I am. She has not forgotten the moon, but she does not let it consume her; when she has the river, she does not feel alone, does not feel the need of the moon, but instead tries to find herself along the banks. I can only hope the path will wind, so that we may have more time together, so that I can watch her run even though I do not know why she does.
Too soon, I see the shore, the beaches that tell me my journey will be ending. The wolf still runs even as I join the ocean, runs into the waters in hopes of trying not to lose that which had become so dear. I lose sight quickly, as I am dragged into the everything. I wait to begin again, and I wonder: what will the wolf think of me? Will she believe I left her? Will she stay by the ocean, wondering what she could have done? Will she wait for the rain once again?
Or will she return to where she once was, howling at the moon? There was once a reflection, and now there is only the wolf. So what have I become?
What is the moon? Well, that is no simple question. The moon is many things; a father or mother, child or sibling; it could be a foreign land, or a hard-sought career; it could even be an unrequited love or personal riches. The point is not what the moon is now, but what it cannot be. It is what is unobtainable, whether that be now or forever, and the wolf finds themselves consumed by the singular desire to have it, despite knowing it can never be.
I am but the rain. I grant the reprieve, however short, masking the moon for a moment, just the time to wonder about everything else. The shadows become aware of each other, the wolf wonders if the moon that hides itself is worth its laments. I fall upon the mountains, and become the river. To those that come to see me, I grant a truth: I bring a reflection, the way to see oneself that, perhaps, they have not seen before.
The wolf came to the waters to find her reflection, and the sustenance of the river. I am but a flow; I follow the path where it may lead. I do not know where I might go, but I know the end, when I must join the others once again and become indiscernible, until the day I reach the sky once more and begin again.
The wolf runs with me. I do not know if its for what I showed her, or what I can provide her, or if she simply loves what I am. She has not forgotten the moon, but she does not let it consume her; when she has the river, she does not feel alone, does not feel the need of the moon, but instead tries to find herself along the banks. I can only hope the path will wind, so that we may have more time together, so that I can watch her run even though I do not know why she does.
Too soon, I see the shore, the beaches that tell me my journey will be ending. The wolf still runs even as I join the ocean, runs into the waters in hopes of trying not to lose that which had become so dear. I lose sight quickly, as I am dragged into the everything. I wait to begin again, and I wonder: what will the wolf think of me? Will she believe I left her? Will she stay by the ocean, wondering what she could have done? Will she wait for the rain once again?
Or will she return to where she once was, howling at the moon? There was once a reflection, and now there is only the wolf. So what have I become?
Music in my Life
In a conversation with a new friend today, I came across one of those strange moments of personal insight. It's always nice having moments like that, but today it was a little awkward. This is mostly due to the fact that it happened at work. The insight itself wasn't awkward, of course; it was the strong desire to turn temporarily introspective that made the rest of the day difficult. Still, each of these moments are like a large blast of positive energy in my psyche, so I decided I shouldn't waste the moment and try to turn introspective now, while I have a chance.
I should move on to the revelation. Don't expect anything profound here; move on if you want something huge. I spurt those out in person; these rants are mostly for things I don't expect people to be interested in (well, except you, obviously). Anyway, the discussion was about strange tastes in music. Mine is quite odd. Many of the people I know have very eclectic tastes. It's been curious to me; seriously, even my own taste in music confounds me. I like rap music. Shocking, I know. Sure, I don't like all of it, but then again I really don't like any certain genre, just a few performers within it.
So, today I had my moment where it all started to make sense. I realized that a lot of why I like so many different kinds of music is because of the impact someone (or, in some cases, something) who introduced some aspect of the music to me. I never realized it before because, most of the time, I only really noticed the emotional impact the music would have on me. Today, I managed to trace it back a little more, and found the destination interesting.
It was an interesting revelation; music has become a little more that it was even with the emotional attachment. Now, it appeals to every sense. It's strange now, as listening to music, which was previously just something I did when I was doing something else, has kind of evolved into its own activity. Thankfully, it hasn't restricted my ability to enjoy music as I previously did: many other personal revelations unfortunately came with a downside, such as my general dislike of the ocean (no, I'm not sharing that story right now, so don't ask). But now I have options: I can still simply turn on the music and work on something else, or I can actually just listen to the music and cruise the memories and emotions.
New positive insight. I can't help but enjoy it while it lasts. Of course, I suppose I could just go listen to some MP3s...
I should move on to the revelation. Don't expect anything profound here; move on if you want something huge. I spurt those out in person; these rants are mostly for things I don't expect people to be interested in (well, except you, obviously). Anyway, the discussion was about strange tastes in music. Mine is quite odd. Many of the people I know have very eclectic tastes. It's been curious to me; seriously, even my own taste in music confounds me. I like rap music. Shocking, I know. Sure, I don't like all of it, but then again I really don't like any certain genre, just a few performers within it.
So, today I had my moment where it all started to make sense. I realized that a lot of why I like so many different kinds of music is because of the impact someone (or, in some cases, something) who introduced some aspect of the music to me. I never realized it before because, most of the time, I only really noticed the emotional impact the music would have on me. Today, I managed to trace it back a little more, and found the destination interesting.
It was an interesting revelation; music has become a little more that it was even with the emotional attachment. Now, it appeals to every sense. It's strange now, as listening to music, which was previously just something I did when I was doing something else, has kind of evolved into its own activity. Thankfully, it hasn't restricted my ability to enjoy music as I previously did: many other personal revelations unfortunately came with a downside, such as my general dislike of the ocean (no, I'm not sharing that story right now, so don't ask). But now I have options: I can still simply turn on the music and work on something else, or I can actually just listen to the music and cruise the memories and emotions.
New positive insight. I can't help but enjoy it while it lasts. Of course, I suppose I could just go listen to some MP3s...
His Spider's Web, part 1
Have you heard of the Jorô-Gumo? No, that's a silly question. Even if you did, it wouldn't make much sense here. My story reminds me of the creature, but not the myth. Although, I suppose it may be similar, in a way.
She was as beautiful as the myth said, in the least. So much so that I did, actually, think it was a trap. Not anything supernatural, of course. The locals from the town told many legends about the mountains, about how people go up and never go up, no trace of where they went and their tracks ending in open fields. So when you find an astonishingly beautiful woman in the middle of nowhere on the side of a mountain, it's not hard to think it a hoax.
Still, my curiosity was piqued. She did not approach me. In fact, far as I could tell, she didn't even notice I was there. That didn't fit the hoax: she was supposed to trick me, right? Promise me something, love or riches, and bring me into some sort of web to eat me, right? She did none of this; she simply wandered past, looking for something.
I followed her for a while, and things started to get a little hazy. I'm not sure why, but everything seemed sluggish. I won't forget what I saw next though.
She walked up to what at first looked like a fine, tightly-woven net stretched between trees. A rabbit had caught itself within web, seemingly recently. It struggled to free itself, and did so even more as she approached, but instead only tangled itself more. She reached down and stroked the creature twice. It slowed its struggle for a moment.
Her next few movements were quite fast, and all I could truly tell that happened was the sound a few snaps and her arms had moved in a blur. Less than a second passed before she had taken much of diaphanous thread and wrapped it around the poor creature. I could still see its outline underneath; although it could not move its body outside of a few frantic jerks, I could still see its beady eye moving around desperately underneath the strange cloth.
She then leaned down close to it, as if to kiss the beast. Although I could not make out what happened next, she certainly did something; as she placed the creature down on the earth, it spasmed even more, unable to move off of its side. Its movements quickly began to slow, however. I watched in fascination as its spasms become less violent, and eventually less frequent, until they stopped altogether.
Its one eye that I could make out kept darting this way and that for some time. I felt like it was returning to me, somehow knowing I was watching and pleading for help from the inevitable. It seemed like hours had passed before that eye stopped moving to stare directly at me, as I returned its gaze without pause.
It took me some time to realized that I did not feel revolt or guilt for what I had watched. My entrancement had come from a sense of awe and wonderment, an appreciation of beauty that made me want more. When I realized the source of my new infatuation had disappeared while I watched the last moments of the rabbit, I began to panic.
I was torn between darting off into the forest or trying to check the web, to see if it might lead some place. In the end, indecision kept me rooted for just enough time, as she came back for the rabbit with a few other bundled packages hanging lightly from her hand from a cord of the webbing. She put the bundle down and set to work repairing the hole in the web.
Her hands were fascinating. String formed of its own accord between her fingers as she pressed her hands together and pulled them apart. She played an elaborate dance that moved no part of her body, aside from her swaying arms and the rocking of her head as she watched, a smile across her face and humming from her lips that showed her own enjoyment of the task that pulled me happily in to its strange movements.
It wasn't long before I found myself humming along to the strange tune she sang. My own voice was not the surprise however: the surprise was when I realized the bundles, even the rabbit, were humming along as well, their voices lending a contrasting baritone that gave the song feeling more akin to a dirge than any sort of working song.
She continued to hum as she gathered the bundles once again, the rabbit now strung along with the others. The smile on her face seemed to contradict the solemn music that came from the impossible harmony of spider and her dead victims. I could hardly keep track of my own thoughts as I watched her begin to move off and up a hill within the forest. Still, I managed to remember to stay hidden, as I followed my new affection.
to be continued
She was as beautiful as the myth said, in the least. So much so that I did, actually, think it was a trap. Not anything supernatural, of course. The locals from the town told many legends about the mountains, about how people go up and never go up, no trace of where they went and their tracks ending in open fields. So when you find an astonishingly beautiful woman in the middle of nowhere on the side of a mountain, it's not hard to think it a hoax.
Still, my curiosity was piqued. She did not approach me. In fact, far as I could tell, she didn't even notice I was there. That didn't fit the hoax: she was supposed to trick me, right? Promise me something, love or riches, and bring me into some sort of web to eat me, right? She did none of this; she simply wandered past, looking for something.
I followed her for a while, and things started to get a little hazy. I'm not sure why, but everything seemed sluggish. I won't forget what I saw next though.
She walked up to what at first looked like a fine, tightly-woven net stretched between trees. A rabbit had caught itself within web, seemingly recently. It struggled to free itself, and did so even more as she approached, but instead only tangled itself more. She reached down and stroked the creature twice. It slowed its struggle for a moment.
Her next few movements were quite fast, and all I could truly tell that happened was the sound a few snaps and her arms had moved in a blur. Less than a second passed before she had taken much of diaphanous thread and wrapped it around the poor creature. I could still see its outline underneath; although it could not move its body outside of a few frantic jerks, I could still see its beady eye moving around desperately underneath the strange cloth.
She then leaned down close to it, as if to kiss the beast. Although I could not make out what happened next, she certainly did something; as she placed the creature down on the earth, it spasmed even more, unable to move off of its side. Its movements quickly began to slow, however. I watched in fascination as its spasms become less violent, and eventually less frequent, until they stopped altogether.
Its one eye that I could make out kept darting this way and that for some time. I felt like it was returning to me, somehow knowing I was watching and pleading for help from the inevitable. It seemed like hours had passed before that eye stopped moving to stare directly at me, as I returned its gaze without pause.
It took me some time to realized that I did not feel revolt or guilt for what I had watched. My entrancement had come from a sense of awe and wonderment, an appreciation of beauty that made me want more. When I realized the source of my new infatuation had disappeared while I watched the last moments of the rabbit, I began to panic.
I was torn between darting off into the forest or trying to check the web, to see if it might lead some place. In the end, indecision kept me rooted for just enough time, as she came back for the rabbit with a few other bundled packages hanging lightly from her hand from a cord of the webbing. She put the bundle down and set to work repairing the hole in the web.
Her hands were fascinating. String formed of its own accord between her fingers as she pressed her hands together and pulled them apart. She played an elaborate dance that moved no part of her body, aside from her swaying arms and the rocking of her head as she watched, a smile across her face and humming from her lips that showed her own enjoyment of the task that pulled me happily in to its strange movements.
It wasn't long before I found myself humming along to the strange tune she sang. My own voice was not the surprise however: the surprise was when I realized the bundles, even the rabbit, were humming along as well, their voices lending a contrasting baritone that gave the song feeling more akin to a dirge than any sort of working song.
She continued to hum as she gathered the bundles once again, the rabbit now strung along with the others. The smile on her face seemed to contradict the solemn music that came from the impossible harmony of spider and her dead victims. I could hardly keep track of my own thoughts as I watched her begin to move off and up a hill within the forest. Still, I managed to remember to stay hidden, as I followed my new affection.
to be continued
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