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NaNoWriMo

time to forego the pleasantries and truly knuckle down on my writing as this month is supposedly a big day for writers working on their manuscripts of all varieties, and i shall be no exception, i may even blog both my low points and high points on my own determined progression to finish and NOT edit some noteworthy piece from my unfinished collection of tales until it is ready… i am working on a collection of short stories called ‘Toys in my Head’ with each “chapter” being some variation of known theme or mood in literature already, inspired by TAO Writing (the art of writing) and the only symbols i see in my own mind urging for release into the open space not inhabited by thrusting/ colliding consciousness and ego, but characters subservient to the will of the greater mass of the human algorithm we might call ‘humanity’ as a universe shaped differently inside all of us as the ‘we’ there is strives to reveal what curiosity can find among the restless and unyielding angles to which this frequency of life often falls into a kind of contradictory antagonism toward… the author is not something i strive to inundate myself as all rites of passage are narrowed doorways through which to feel out and experience this visceral reality, and i am still coming to terms with my arrival on the plane of space since the beginning eluded me with ignorant bliss as disguised to be the “normal” childhood for an American boy in the modern decade of the Eighties, when the corporate corruption within this governing system reached a new and despicable high in mass mind control as the consumerist plague wiped out most of the decency left from prior ages leaving fear and paranoia as replacement in the wake as this side of humanity starting to drift… this idiot whose works you are reading now has been drifting for years as a sopping ignorant fool living in an odd moaning and groaning lucid wet dream, where reality is the only thing that should be put between quotation marks when getting the words right is the only concern of those vacant witty criticisms beyond mere message or greeting, but i try to think beyond my rationalistic constraints that begin to hang me up resisting the tension that is only too natural to the ebb and flow on this physical plane of consciousness presented with many mysteries stacked upon one another without any hesitation between layers… it is once we start to analyze the details that the contradiction of principles takes place, forcing a few people to question their core beliefs in order to test the worthiness of growth and development, and there are those who ‘jump into the fire’ feet first without any idea of the perils that might be intrinsic to the individual situation thus put to action when it is thought to be no more room for sensitive deliberation… to write a novel, it seems one must plan out the details a little bit at a time if there is a reductive inspiration to muse over, especially if you happen to work one or more steady day jobs and may seem to never have the space set aside to make the desire a reality… this is the case with every aspect of the living things we become as we scramble to figure out what we are capable of doing well in this world, tricky to find a goal while you can because of indeterminate risk involved with placating both society and one’s self, and this is where contradiction is laid as a trap for the unwary and indifferent ones that need to be taken down a couple pegs here and there along the ladder… deep sinking depression is counter-productive to the intuition informing us of our right path along with all appropriate detours that will endear lessons of experience to the ones that acknowledge their roles in developing this system and other potentials for new growth, hopefully planting the positive seeds early on to allow for some real quest for the personal ideal that we all can accomplish each in our own ways, and dulling the senses only when there is so much unbearable information overload attacking what subconscious animal brains we actually have left… the larger parts are for the transmission and reception as well as filtration for the integral cosmic information as it keeps the momentum of swirling around in the out there, with its greater structures disguising the smaller parts to the sum of the whole that we can never perceive by our so naked senses alone, but with the elements our government prohibits out of irrational fear and paranoia we can very much see deeper into our reality beyond the outer self that cannot shed or shatter its ego… the way out is through as the mess recycles itself whether that disregards who we are collectively or singly makes no difference amid the chaos that ensues from the collection of both drama and emotion, i have been told that my non-fiction is much better than my fiction though i happen to have issue with that, and this is what this post is all about in the wisdom found throughout the effluvium that fills this space between our ears… however, do we hear more than our own soiled voices in the background noise of the room, or are these the vapid ghosts we try our damnedest to get away from while channeled Here incarnated as beings in this reality woven together?… all my art is my passion, and this is the strongest kind of impulse that drives me to find some kind of resolution in my abstract lifestyle beyond bonds of sexuality or responsibility without the weight of society perched on my shoulder, but the writing does free a part of the writer whose bounded by the limitations of the body that does not have the imagination facilitated by the emotions and intellect in a mind that can perceive passion and conviction… i still have yet to choose what tale.

Thanks, khet.