//
Blessings be upon this place.
I am Plotmeister. Hear me roar. And that's really all you need to know.
"Be Yourself" is about the worst advice you can give some people.
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Index page to stories, poems, and photography by [little flag]!
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But you should probably just visit my dA: http://eve-n-eden.deviantart.com
[
Greg: "I don't want to feel sad."
Dharma: "Well nobody does. That's why there's drugs, alcohol, war, divorce, catalogs, plastic surgery, and pudding."
Greg: "Pudding?"
Dharma: "Try to cry when you're eating pudding, I dare you."]
Go enter the All Things Terry Pratchett Contest!
Do it and spread the creative love for the genius that is Discworld!
You might also be interested in this fabulous poetry contest: Strangers
Check this out, while you're at it: Elftown Comedians
My website:
http://www.eve-n-eden.deviantart.com
About my book (pub. 2007):
http://www.myspace.com/transmogrificsoul
I'm just a philosophy / theology sort-of student with no serious job prospects
and a penchant for revelling in too many fandoms and an unfortunate tendency
towards typos, not to mention run-on sentences. Pet projects include
debunking the canon validity of JJ Abrams' version of Star Trek and promoting
inter-religious dialogue, two goals which are bound to misunderstood by 99%
of those who read them. So, two out of three. Did I mention I can't do math?
Your reading this new read has been read. (Toasters toast toast?) Or noticed,
whatever. The important thing to note is I'm making it all up as I go along. Italia
e' la terra della "bella figura" ma noi sono i bastardi pazzi con le maschere
e l'esame personalita'. No, it doesn't make any sense. Neither do you.
That's the whole point. Carry on.
Poetry is like making a shamble. You just do it.
(With or without Nikes.)
(Because, when I say magic, I mean
real magic. I used to want
to be a Friend of Narnia. Then I wanted to be a Hogwarts student or a Starfleet captain.
All good goals. I'd still like to be. But the most attainable, and the most difficult, is to
be a witch by noonlight.
Know what I mean?)
likes:
+ originality
+ humor
+ good haircuts
+ stories about small town summers
+ spending money
+ dr pepper
+ sleep
+ well-written fantasy
+ thoughtful color combinations
+ creating
+ justice
+ interesting houses
I am sporadically artistical and occasionally studious.
I like working at Subway and being pretentious. I still
wear my class ring and tend to use random Italian
words. All my role models are fictional characters.
You might be my new best friend. Peace out.
The important thing to realize is whether or not you've realized
the important thing. What is that? Well, which philospher are you
reading today? None? Everyone is a philosopher. Most of them just
aren't any good.
It's the dreams you don't remember that are telling you what you
need to know. The cryptic lines of the New Age wishy-washy wannabe
goodness is the fullness of your cowardice sculpted into profit.
"Deny thy father and refuse thy name." Do you know what that means?
If opinion is the only valid determining factor in quality, what decides
our opinion? By what invisible standard do we measure our little worlds?
Inclinations are acquired and formed. But by what? Get out of that,
you post-modern subjectivist.
P.S., I love you.
[Fact: "Life is not reductionist. Life is holistic."]
We want so much to offer. To be able to hold out, trembling and uncertainly smiling,
the final fruits of our consummated labors.
But where is the continuity of action? The singleness of purpose, the drive of inspiration?
The cold and final bell of the funeral service resounds night and day in our heads.
The impossibility of being confronts us each day in the silent mirror.
So we learn to avert our eyes. Conditioned like laboratory dogs, the interminable repeat
cycle of bell and steak and light in the eyes blinds us not with tears, no joy or savage
frustration, no absurd and breaking laughter, but humdrum, timber-dry familiarity.
A twitch at the corner of his mouth during the keynote speech at the fancy dinner party,
and lassitude plants its sighing and impotent flag of victory. All hail, King Mediocrity.
Bastards. You've taken even the language of revolt from us. The dead words fall empty
and vague from our mouths. We are so used to seeing the villain inside we no longer
give chase, and he has forgotten to worry a sudden struggle might ruin his sleek black
suit. A jailer who needs neither walls nor keys.
We reach inside our hearts for gifts to offer and, finding only cob-webbed shadows and
old, unused furniture, we shape the emptiness into pleasing rings of illusion, diamonds of
would-be, rubies of faded and reluctant lust. We twist, we writhe, we bring them out--our
shriveled hearts, an offering for the metal desk altar of Art. Praised be the god of our failures.
Hey. We tried.
Postmodern ingenuity abounds and we cannot save ourselves from nightfall. The earth turns
its back on the sun and we blame His Golden Majesty for setting; even now.
Behold the dark face of the city. The burnt offering.
(To whom? And why? But wait...?)
Sacrifice accepted.
(More mistakes and promises to follow.)
"I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I'm still the sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Good night, sir."
Peace.
