Archives for posts with tag: writing

aemonegg.gif

Aemon’s blind white eyes came open. “Egg?” he said, as the rain streamed down his cheeks. “Egg, I dreamed that I was old.’

Maester Aemon Targaryen, A Feast For Crows (G.R.R. Martin)


Man if I could write something as gut-wrenching, I could happily call it a day.

There’s something immediately beautiful about the incomplete. Some visceral unquantifiable quality is lost when an incomplete work of art becomes the polished completed product. And this isn’t to say that one shouldn’t aspire to finish their projects. No. Not at all.

Only that some emotion must inevitably be reigned in and filed down to make a cohesive thing. Honest contradictions must be reconciled, or one prioritized over another, to make a wholly rational statement.

One must have a true endgame in mind to make art. A journey without a destination is aimless wandering (and it should be noted here that aimless wandering can be its own destination). Yet the journey is the essential spirit where the art resides. The destination becomes inconsequential before the desire to reach it. But there must be a desire to reach it.

So the process then, when in servitude to a higher cause, is the master. It is the real true art and mastery. And so, we return to incomplete works of art.

Those works that are stalled before reaching their True North. An unfinished draft; raw video footage or unpolished grain. Half-drawn sketches. Living beating hearts, laid open-breasted upon a table.

And what are our lives but incomplete works of art? Unaccomplished dreams. Grieving loved ones. Shopping lists and chores. Words left unspoken. Nobody leaves this world with every thread resolved and their character arcs concluded. We exit it as untidily and ill-prepared as we came into it.

And so we come to me: the artist at the end of his life. I have been a vagrant upstart. The pale imitator and the disrupter. The visionary prophet and then the establishment. The follower, heretic and mentor. I have been the babe at the teat, and father. Leader, ruler, dictator. Advisor, businessman, monument.

My body of work is beyond reproach. I have sculpted the very heart of man and painted the heavens themselves. I have lived and I have loved and been loved in turn.

I have reached True North. I am sadly complete.

Farewell.

ultronsculpt

particles
Particles of thought strewn
through space, across time – both mine and yours alike
sand grains let loose from loose hands
that fall where they fall, lost to us forever
but found again perhaps, on some other world’s shore

To these pockets of warmth we build for one another
small comforts of unabandoned hope
in an ever-cold dimming universe that drifts wider apart

Opening text from
My Fabric Moved

  • nostalgia, childhood, time capsules, dating a time period
  • bikes
  • death and love and vengeance
  • places to eat
  • introverts
  • self-inflicted injuries
  • bittersweet endings and/or fractured relationships
  • varying degrees of genre thrown in (scifi/supernatural/fantasy/magical realism/thriller)

homergenius

I think I just gave my trade secrets away.

“So how is it?” Shafi watched her lick the humous off her thumb and little finger before taking another bite.

Bronagh frowned a concentrated frown as she chewed. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of aubergine. I was hoping for more meat.”

“Yeah it’s light like mediterranean food. Easy on the belly.”

“Well it is mediterranean food.”

lfood

Wasn’t Lebanon in the middle east? “Oh. Right.” Shafi grabbed a laminated menu from the table beside their own. Everything on the menu was numbered, named and priced. None of the dishes were described however and not many more were photographed, so the two of them had picked their dishes largely by the sound of the arab words.

“We should try some more things. This one might have meat in it.” Shafi looked over the lumps in the image. If only they had brought their phones. “Or potato. I’m just gonna ask the guy.” He waved a hand to no success. “Boss. Brother.”

The old chef behind the counter grumbled at the disinterested waiter and came out, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Everyone’s a brother,” Bronagh solemnly observed.

“That or uncle.” And nobody liked being the uncle.

“Yes habibi. You order?” The chef turned around, suddenly compelled to yell insults at the waiter. “Kelb! Kol khara ya hmar!” The young waiter to his credit refused to engage, but for a condescending whistle, which seemed to further anger the old man.

Shafi pointed to the menu. “Which ones have meat in them, boss?”

Wleh all meat halal. I make for you.” And with that the chef stormed away, the only one who knew what had apparently been ordered.

Bronagh played with her straw. “So that happened.”

I have to write my current main project in chapter order, more or less. For whatever reason, that’s just the process I need to go with for this one. So when I get stuck, I can’t just pick up elsewhere on it. Instead I’ve been dabbling with other things/making excuses and procrastinating.

Well. After months I’ve finally unstuck myself and completed a problematic chapter in, like, a fortnight. It was no Meereenese Knot but I write like a snail as it is. It’s also been a year since I started using scrivener. So it’s doubly a celebration outchea.

leocheers

And now for the obligatory tune 🎵

In his sleep he could hear her gentle breath, always verging on becoming the quietest snore. As cute as ever, he almost thought, in his sleepy stupor. He being Daryush, he thought. And she being…

His partner, his companion, his mate. She stirred, seeming to sense his hesitation. Daryush reached over to her and sloped a comforting arm across her chest. He moved his head closer to her pillow and drank in the smell of her hair and neck.

I love you.

He tried to fight back against the crashing waves. What was her name? Wave after unrelenting wave. Love had no name, the reply eventually came, and with that he, Daryush, rolled back into his slumber, pulled under the current by her sweetest scents. Through the cool night, enveloped in the mutual warmth, their tangled limbs no longer moved, but for the bobbing up and down of each breath.

First light broke through the curtain weakly, loosening the spell’s effect upon Daryush for a moment. He could see her shape better now, his love’s. He retracted a naked leg and she turned to embrace him. Again he fell. Deeper into her heat. Daryush tried to remember the colour of her eyes as he drifted away once more, forgetting as he did so all the wonderful details of her face that he so professed to love.

And so it went all through the early morning. One would wake in a daze and the other would reel them back in with words of honey, before up could become up and down resolutely stayed down again. Their sweaty entanglement of bones was arranged in a different configuration each time Daryush opened an eye. Where one human began and another ended seemed… open to interpretation.

Seven o’clock. Stay. You don’t need to go. Eight o’clock. There’s no work today. Nine o’clock, ten. Let’s stay like this; together forever. Eleven. Forever. Could we? Could an embrace so warm and loving sustain us for two lifetimes? Would it nourish our bones and fill our bellies or were they, we, delirious?

The high sun burnt through the net curtain and cooked the small bedroom. Daryush was parched. I have to get up now, it’s time. The woman in his arms, the love of his life looked away, despondent. I’ll be back, he promised her.

This might be the last time. Her words hurt his chest because he knew them to be true. Every night his perfect vision of her grew fuzzier, blurrier around the edges. Daryush sat up to an elbow and shook the last of his sleep from his head. Why did you never come for me? Her voice faded away, into a corner of his mind.

And Daryush woke up alone, remembering all at once all the mistakes he had never made and the perfectly empty score-sheet he had to show for it.



Previous part(s):

Daryush I – ghosts that were