Tag: creative writing

Journal Sequence #6: Intended Viewer [Stink is Gone]

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I found my soul today. [Back to Land by Wooden Shjips plays] Oh, when that fog clears. It’s just… The stink is gone. The stink is GONE. Long, sharp acrylic nails painted sapphire blue. Rings on fingers, bangles on wrists. Curling, twisting, dancing. Embodying the freedom. Forwards backwards outwards inwards. And I see the fire… Continue reading Journal Sequence #6: Intended Viewer [Stink is Gone]

Journal Sequence #5: Notes from Hypnogogia

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1. Retreat into a comfortable mental zone. Maybe one layer down. Think of a tree. A single trunk from which all branches grow. Sturdy, Dependable. Organic. 2. The towers stretching into the sky – human constructs – now gone. Melted away and replaced with visions of an unbound realm. 3. Escape from Space. Threads floating… Continue reading Journal Sequence #5: Notes from Hypnogogia

Cut-up Sequence #2: Remixing Mind [The Letter M]

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He hated the spectre-creating machine. It was like the other: wild, rough. It made him sick. But where there is a weapon, man will use it. Where a man hurts, he will seek. Through a tube the egos turned into colours showing their relentless and eternal state of emergency. Humans are perfect green. A green… Continue reading Cut-up Sequence #2: Remixing Mind [The Letter M]

Writing Pareidolia

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I’m fascinated by pareidolia. The way we are primed for spotting the familiar in the alien, the meaning in the senseless, the pattern in the random. The way we may or may not see the same things, like faces in froth or ponies in clouds, depending on our subjective experiences and values. Nature’s Rorschach test.… Continue reading Writing Pareidolia

Travelogue #1: Transparent Woman [Early Photographs of the Moon]

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I “If you are not able to imagine you will not be able to thrive.” Girija Kaimal But it’s [deep] midnight, and the waters are lapping at the shore. There’s moonlight. Possibly a boat, but no rescue. Calm, but not serene. Infinite, doomful wisdom. Torrential rain and howling wind, I crouch in my hut. I… Continue reading Travelogue #1: Transparent Woman [Early Photographs of the Moon]

Cut-up Sequence #1: Our Hammer/Still Moving

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I’m in a metal box. It’s raining outside, maybe. No one is coming. Not ever. Sleep provides a refuge in which the mind becomes one with its [our] habitat. I must emerge in my dream because The Jewel is coming. I buzzed her in. Soon she’ll enter through my hotel window. I selected her from… Continue reading Cut-up Sequence #1: Our Hammer/Still Moving

Hybrid [Manifesto]

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1. Writing about a writer is cliché. 2. Too many novels start with a journey. 3. Dreams and flashbacks are lazy plot devices. 4. Elaborate prose presented as monologue is self-indulgent. 5. Philosophy should be hidden, not overt. 6. So fucking what. 7. You fall out of one overused trope and into another. 8. You… Continue reading Hybrid [Manifesto]

Journal Sequence #3

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Hide from the plain in the abstract. Hide from the line in the circle. Follow artistic whims. Portraits of the lost. Rich, lyrical texture. Live on the blade. Be honest with yourself. Who are you trying to please? The return of the muse. Bloodied and sick and raw and reaching. A disgusting attraction. Whatever works.… Continue reading Journal Sequence #3

Journal Sequence #2: A Month [Alone in the Dark]

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Dual-aspect monismQuantum physicsExtreme synchronicityDepressionInternal screamingSpinozan philosophyEcstatic grinningKathy AckerManic laughterFlossingSporadic poetry compositionRiffing aphorismsForeboding in the ribcageAlone in the DarkPainting in the mindBurying nihilismTearsViolent dancingArmchair philosophyGeorges BatailleDreaming in the daytimeBleeding scabsPlatonic cravingThelemic WillPatti SmithRuminationCloud nineClaws of desperationDisappearing abyssDual-aspect monism I’m trying something out here. Looking for patterns, rhythms, connections in journaling and beauty in fragments. I’m looking… Continue reading Journal Sequence #2: A Month [Alone in the Dark]

Flash: Colour Bleeds Out/Only Birds

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Colour bleeds out, sounds wind down. Muffled, blind. Straight lines, thick and thin, washed in white and grey. It is winter here. Gentle snowflakes fall, though they strike as something sinister. Am I the only one conscious, the only one not a golem made of meat? Playing pieces for cruel gods. This pawn has slipped… Continue reading Flash: Colour Bleeds Out/Only Birds