I would seriously like to start writing again, if anybody has the opportunity.
'Course, I want to start writing solo shit too, but that takes planning and stuff.
At the top of the world, high in the cold, windy mountains, a battle raged. Amidst the rocks and crags of the distant peaks, men fought with ferocity almost equal to that of the piercing winds, which whipped through the treacherous passes of the cold mountain range. Both sides were from the high altitudes, and so were used to the eternal punishment of the wind-chill. Almost all had experienced skin problems, lung disorders, and pneumonia due to exposure to the climate in their younger days. All had gone through that gauntlet and emerged battle ready. They knew how to survive.
One army wore small navy blue flags on their back, bearing an eagle’s head. As the wind snapped the flags, each man looked like a small meteor, flying forward; a strong illusion. They also wore thick armor, as much as for resisting the elements, as for blocking an enemy’s blow. Some of them carried heavy swords, and some carried pointed maces. Each man fought according to his own strengths. Unfortunately strength meant dishearteningly little against their enemy.
Their enemies were large, muscular men in armor that had been painted crimson, but whose paint had been chipped away, so now they looked rusty. The entire armored suit had strange triangular protrusions on the arms, knees and ankles. This gave them an almost birdlike appearance of aerodynamics. The eagle’s army had laughed when they saw what their opponents were wearing, along with the bulky, ungainly pouch each of them were wearing on their chest, making them look fat. They weren’t laughing for long.
The officer blew a whistle, which withstood the strong wind, and each man pulled a cord on his pouch. Within a second, from every man’s chest pouch a small parachute burst, pointing forwards and up, taking its man with it. While they were in the air, the soldiers drew dreadfully long spears from their backs, and held them pointing down. Then with manipulation of ropes, released the air from their parachutes and descended down upon the enemy lines like a beating hand. The eagle’s army took the first blow completely surprised at this unprecedented tactic. Before many of them could strike back, the parachutes went out and the crimson army made a never before heard of forward retreat.
So i dont forget. THis is not a complete post, but it has to do with a story im about to start with terry. THis is a reminder for me:
"I told you that we waited too long, gods forgive us!"
Sat, May. 1st, 2004, 12:32 am
Don't give me faces
Don't give me lies
My soul's a window
A stretch of satin canvis
Red crushed velvet
I take this knife
(your truths, your hopes, your bullheaded control)
I take this knife
(your decisions for my life)
I stab it through
The pleasure of this penetration
The lung clenching exhileration
You love it as I pull it down
I take this knife
(you're oblivious, self-righteous)
I tear it through
The rip of cloth
The broken weave
The shredded window
That I did cleave
In this night, the holes,
they flap, flutter, sigh
An angry wind, a chilling sky
The deed is done
the shredding over
Pleasure gone, you run for cover
Return to hovels, houses, lovers
Within this room
The window gone
The blings reduced
To holes and tatters
I sit alone
The chill surrounds me
My bones feel shattered
In the cold
My chest retracted
Brace your heart for some extreme
Till madness ends, I fear I'll scream
I'll shreik, I';ll howl, from my throat
from my lungs, my heart
from my pain, my eyes, my vein
I'll fill the night, now harsh exposed
with wailing, angry, heavy crows
Because I am bored in sixth period, and I have some time on my hands, I thought I would write something about another important prat of stories. The setting.
I will try to hold back my biased feelings about the setting of a story. I personally feel that the setting is oh christ, one of the most important parts of any good story. The setting contributes to stories in many possible ways.
1) Mood. If you are trying to establish a particular mood, such as fear, then the setting is useful, unless you are Alfred Hitchcock. If it's a horror story, the setting should be in a dark cave. If it's a love story, the setting could be a cruise ship. That's just in a general sense. It could get much more specific. I remember the beginning of the film noir genre, where the mood was impersonality and callousness. That's why it was set in a city, which exemplifies that feeling. All I meant by Alfred Hitchcock was that he liked to set horror stories in... Santa Rosa.
2) Plot Points. If you're writing a story about domestic terrorism, set it in a major metropolitan area where there are lots of buildings. If it's a story about guerilla warfare, set it in a jungle. It goes on and on.
One other thing that I consider awesome about setting is that it can be used as thematic symbolism. I was going to write a story about a young couple who meditate instead of sleep to regain their energy. Given that they would be walking the line between consciousness and sleep, I wanted to set it in places that are the dividing line between two "worlds", such as the beach (sea and land), and the top of a skyscraper (land and air) etc.... I described this already somewhere, didn't I?
For my own thing, I also enjoy settings because if they're described beautifully enough, I can build it in my mind and pretend I were there instead of boring ol' Santa Rosa. Blah.
Ok, I need to leave now, cuz I'm at schoool. Bye bye.
Given our recent visitation to the land of Ira Glass, I propose an idea. To invoke a regimen of more productive writing, I propose that we all work within our boundaries of diligence to write a story (length unimportant) once per week, or perhaps bi-weekly. Depending on the size. Mine are usually < 10 pages, so I will try to create a hefty portion of something weekly. Others can do as they see fit. This isn't to create publishable stuff, just to get us on a course of steady writing to increase our skill, just as Ira said.
quod cogitatis? (Swensen, correct me?)
Brick and brick and brick. Sean sat outside the window, leaning on the corner of the wall and sill. The regular lines of the grated fire escape pressed into his jeans, but he just gazed and glared out at the broken sky. Brick and metal and concrete slashed at the horizon, tearing the sunset with strips of lifeless, black city. Color escaped here and there, the color of sunlight refracting through pollutants. Beauty of destruction, still destroyed by the always lifeless stretch of progress.
He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the sunset clear of all the obstacles man had placed between himself and the never ending conjunction of land and sky. He tried to set within his mind the thought of prairies, the ones he had read about in books with yellowing pages that smelled like old libraries. Grass and life that goes on and on and nothing gets in the way. Where he could see for miles, no smog, no glass and metal structures, no broken down city life to drive his gaze forever to the pavement
Sean opened his eyes, and with his squinted glare he melted down the twisted structures, felt the rock shudder the earth as it crumbled on the skin of asphalt, he heard the shattering glass and siren and in his mind it all stood still. For minutes he sat in imagined silence, until he felt the little things beneath the layered, black falsities of the modern world creep out. The green things and the winged things. He felt the roots take hold in the covered ground, the earth so long covering it’s wounded surface with the bandage of this city. But the city had refused to move, instead of healing the scarred surface, it let the moisture and the disease gather up beneath it, warm and roiling with death, eager to break through, and so we covered it, year after year with asphalt, tar, another building, another sidewalk, to keep the festering boil of our broken earth from breaking through to where we now live. Just another pathogen, thriving on the sweaty, rank bandage of our city. Now with this city so destroyed, toppled in his mind, Sean felt it grow again. The green and living things took root, drove themselves into the warm, wet, still healing soil, deeper until they felt ensured a home here, where the disease of the land once dwelled. Only once established did the growing things come out, come up above the surface. Vines and leaves crept up the chunks of stone, writhing, covering, smothering the remnants of this lost society until all that remained was green. The insects’ wings thuttered against the leaves sometimes, a bird could be heard. No more airplanes, no more traffic jams, no more screeched cell phone conversations. Just bird and breath and growth.
Sean opened his eyes, and noticed with a sigh the sun had set and night was once again setting fire to the thousand streetlamp nightmares of the never sleeping land,
Sat, Apr. 10th, 2004, 12:36 am
cherished strength and memory
broken hearted cries
a shout a stab a punch a sigh
a short and whimpered squeak
a chasm, gulf, and shattered earth
gaping wounded pride
shaking up the world tonight
refusing to divide
point the place, name the name
blame the worship
hide the eyes
pray for galvanizing lies
deny connection, fake your lives
abandon every thought this night
you’re made of wisdom
tied in fear, bound by hopeless driving tears
you search for playthings, priceless fun
splintered, ground up as you run
flee the places, burn the names
drive out the faces, shift the blame