fifty four

I’ve two publications at the same place today. My good friends at Rotten Leaves Magazine, which can be found ore yonder on the right side of your screen, were kind enough to take my short story, The Mirror , and my poem, The Clown. It’s been a long time since i’ve tried to get poetry published, but this is one of my favorites and probably my best.

But, yeah, i added links over in the Publications page as well, which no one seems to ever go to, but such is life. Really, i think this is the boring part, me talking, but most prefer it to my fiction it seems, so what do i know.

fifty two

Part VI: Act III is now up at Troubadour 21. Republished, really, as it was a stand alone piece before, but that’s how this whole thing got going. I meant to have it be Part VII, but the broken computer forced plans to change, as it is like to do.

Switching gears, i’d like to talk about Max Richter, who’s just brilliant. He’s probably my favorite composer of all time. Every song just haunts me, elevates me, saves me. He has that gentleness that Arvo Pärt shows so mesmerically, especially in Spiegel im Spiegel, which i could listen to forever and just might. Max Richter has that quality to him as well as this ability to obliterate you with power and force, almost Wagnerian in the way it crushes you, physically, spiritually. It’s an assault, almost, but, like Wagner, an assault you appreciate, were always looking for, whether you knew it or not.

And, really, it comes to The Art of Mirrors, which i would encourage everyone to listen to. All fifty two minutes of it. I’m reluctant to talk of spirituality for fear of derision, but if you have some sense of the essential, this will prove it to you. It’s like being carried on the wings of angels, hearing them sing in strings and ivory keys. All of existence surrounds and consumes you until you become a part of it, a part of everything, the essential. that’s not to say it’s a spiritual piece, but you’ll find it hear. You’ll see god between these notes.

And even if there is no essential in you, listen to it because it will show you the beauty of existence, the towering ability of man, how we rise like giants, and can be gods. To me, it is the most perfect expression of everything i’ve ever thought about in my entire life. It’s all captured here. Philosophy, love, death, fear, sorrow, everything and everyone is wrapped inside. And i’ve listened to it hundreds of times, maybe even thousands, and even when it’s not playing, i hear it here between my ears, incessantly and perfectly, as if it were a part of me. And it is. The last ten minutes and especially the last six capture every bit of my being inside it. If you want to know me, every thought i’ve had, every word i’ve said, every love i’ve had, every dream, every curse, every failing, every success, it’s all right in those last six minutes.

This song’s been in my head for a while now. It’s called Vladimir’s Blues and it’s wonderful.

Or there’s this version by some random person, which i think is just glorious.

forty nine

We all knew it’d come to this. Me missing a few days and all. The computer’s still broken so i may miss a few more, but i feel less pressure now since i’ve already missed bits, letting the days fall into cracks.

Been thinking about this song today and i quite like Miss Deschanel’s version, sometimes even more than Smokey’s. It’s quite pleasant.

Senior Slide’s wandered into the weekends and it’s a bit shit, if you get me. Life’s picking up, though. Getting Faulkner under my nails, the research is flowing, the next story’s shaping up with his voice all right in my head, and the novel’s teasing itself into manageable bits.

My mother’s worried for my life and i suppose she should be. Peter turns twenty one tomorrow and somehow we got on the topic of us dying and we’re all pretty convinced that i’ll be the first child to be buried. Certainly no surprise there, what with the life i live and the way these daemons trail me.

Gonna try to set this all down before i forget or it forgets me.

forty seven

Women should age properly and not be embarrassed of it. These old women on the television trying to look like they’re thirty are atrocious. I can only imagine how long it takes for them to construct their face, which looks like a terrible caricature of what a face is meant to look like. Men do it too, certainly, but it tends ot be ona smaller scale.

I’ll ont get into the socio-cultural reasons for this because i don’t much care to discuss them.

Take away the sun
but leave me the stars

forty six

I had a poem in my head all day, but i’ve forgotten it. I always do. Too, i’ve decided to begin once more to write poetry. Probably just silly rhymes like always, but maybe real poetics, ya dig?

Anyway, a few days ago i was on about suicide. It’s an intriguing thing, this killing of self. As i said some forty posts ago, i’ve no desire to kill myself and never had any, but it’s a thought i find interesting and worth a bit of thought, or at least a few words.

I see nothing wrong with the desire to die, even if it means killing oneself. It’s when you kill another that i’ve a problem. By all means, do what you like with and to yourself, just leave me out of it. Though, that’s where things get real interesting. When you’re asked to aid in the dying. I can’t know now if i’d do it, but i’d like to think i’d help any creature suffering, even if it means to put an end to it by ending all of it.

Because death can be reprieve. And it’s not necessarily taking life, which is the case of murder, but of freeing life. And maybe that’s an insufficient metaphysical gap, but i think it’s an important one. Helping someone die is different than killing or helping to kill.

Of course many disagree. We can’t all be Kevorkians, though there’s this thing, let’s see if i can track it down in a minute or less. Bah, can’t find it. it’s called the Kevorkian Society or some such thing. People fighting for the right to die, essentially.

I think i should be able to choose when to die if i see fit. There’s a character in, i think, The Brothers Karamazov, though it could be something else, and i want to say his name’s Dmitri, though that, too, could be wrong. Anyway, he, for philisophical reasons, decides to kill himself, though it’s done a bit comically as–i just remembered it’s in The Idiot–the main character’s always expecting him to be dead, but he persists and persists. I don’t recall rightly if he does end up killing himself or no, but that’s hardly the point here.

Death, she calls me, for surely it’s a she or i wouldn’t love her so and she wouldn’t be so elusive nor would she ravage me so, ripping my body apart with each molecule disintegrating till there’s naught to hold it all together and i melt into the essential and leave the impermanence of existence behind.