Elephants Dreaming

On my daily walk, a story erupted in my brain and had to be hammered out. Bridgielove says it seems there should be more, but I truly can't think what. This is the story as it dropped into mind, and I rather like the hanging ending, myself. There is just such a house in our neighbourhood...
Grandfather MacNamara

I do worry about myself sometimes. Certainly in my drinking days I was of a more than melancholy turn of mind, but these days I am quite sober, and fairly content, yet this is the sort of story my mind comes up with. I'm not certain what it says about me, if anything. On the other hand, who can say from whence the stories come, and since I rarely get any comments, I couldn't say where they go, either. I only hope as a wordsmith I'm up to the task of playing the conduit in between...

I'm sure I meant to post something before this, but as always I've been distracted. RPing as The Shadow is absorbing and gratifying, and feeds my escapist tendencies wonderfully. The character is rather like me in a number of ways, which makes any flattery directed at him rewarding on a personal level. Not that I'd confuse myself with the character, but he just seems to be so well liked by other players, in terms of how I play him, and messages along the lines of how wonderful it is to see him played and played well make me smile.
I'm also trying to push myself to write more, because I really should. My NaNoWriMo novel has been languishing, partly for lack of editing assistance, and I feel badly about that. I've written very little over the past decade, and that's a terrible realization. The ideas simply don't flow the way they used to, I suppose, or perhaps I'm simply out of practice.
Allowing myself to run with whatever inspiration I can get, I have an idea I'm fleshing out for a Shadow fan fiction that doesn't rely on the RP business of the Nexus. I also picked up the Nexus 100 table the other day and began mucking about off that with surprising success. I don't believe I ever finished it for Thorn, but I was attempting to do it entirely with poetry from his perspective. It was too great a restriction, I suppose, although I did turn out some neat little poems in the attempt. I'm reluctant to join up or post the table until I have a little more material, but I wrote three little things, I think they're called drabbles(?) yesterday, and I'm working at more. For the time being I might post them here, for feedback or at least the amusement of others.

In other news, I've joined Deviant Art, and although it was mostly to make a lovely little collection of other people's art to look at, I was coaxed into uploading a few things, if anyone's interested in either of those. I have an impressive collection of artwork of The Shadow there.

( The Shadow: Beginnings )

I shall try the word count bit again after I've got something more written today. Perhaps it's just some sort of glitch or high-traffic problem. In the meantime I give you a short story dug up from an old disk. This was a collaboration between myself and Rey, and it seemed the time to post it. Don't forget to reset your clocks.

( Tempus )

This afternoon Bridgie and I sat down and gave each other song lyric prompts in a writing excercise. My attempt was deemed depressing. The first part, certainly, but I thought the last bit was uplifting... Ah well, I suppose it's all a matter of perspective. Consider yourselves forewarned.
The three bits are not necessarily related to each other directly, it was simply a stream of consciousness.
( bits of writing )

As a record to myself, I took the melatonin supplement for the first time last night. Fell asleep relatively well, comparable with some of my better nights, but woke up groggy and bleary-eyed. I ended up taking a brief nap later. It could be the supplement, could be that I need time to adjust to it, or could be entirely unrelated.

Trying to draft the family into going out to the park to catch the last of the afternoon sun.

I'm aware I've missed several days of posting. I seem to have been slipping in and out of a severe funk since my birthday, and I couldn't say precisely why. To make some sort of amends, here are three previously unposted poems, intended to have been written from Thorn's perspective from the old Nexus 100. I never did complete the Nexus 100, although I keep whittling away at it slowly. Approaching poetry from Thorn's perspective is a fascinating practice, although I should hope most of his poetry stands on its own.

( Broken )

( Yellow )

( Storm )

Because I was so maudlin today, the girls took it upon themselves to try teaching me something called 'retail therapy'? I cannot complain, as my altered book supplies reached a critical mass and at last exploded in something grander than a bookmark. I am still working at the calligraphy, but I have truly deface a book now, and I'm fairly well pleased with it. Photographs to come when I have a complete page.

I haven't written a thing today, so I'm dredging the barrel. Wandering through my own files on the computer, I came across an odd little scrap of writing that was done purely for the interest of it. This is unlikely to be of interest to anyone but myself and possibly those who play with Thorn, but I'm not sure anyone reads his journal, as it goes without updates for great lengths of time.
This is posted as I had it written, complete with red notes that are meant to be an instructor's corrections. For reasons I no longer recall, I latched onto the idea that Thorn would rather like the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This was intended to be a sort of book report. His grammar and spelling are coming along nicely these days, which is ever so much easier to type than deliberately borderline illiteracy...

---

( Thorn's Essay )

I'm posting this now, although I may take some time to get to the actual writing. I'm happy to collect prompts, and I'll put up replies when I've got the keyboard properly, this evening or tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

Give me some lyrics (Just a few lines, please. A stanza if you must) and I will write you a small thing about one of YOUR characters and one of MY characters. Even if they have never met ever.

It has been some time since I updated my LiveJournal with anything of value. In a world with such widespread opportunity to live our lives as publicly as possible, I find myself struggling to keep up with even one outlet of this. That I should worry about this at all shows a modern preoccupation with connecting to the world at large.
There is a popular belief that the world is becoming an ever smaller place as our connections with all others on this planet grow and overlap, but I would argue that this is an illusion and the truth is quite the opposite. Once an individual’s world extended no further than their own village, but we have had our awareness pushed in ever-expanding circles outward. The modern individual is expected to be not only aware of the globe as a whole, but deeply concerned about events occurring all over the world as well. It is considered socially irresponsible not to be distressed by a half dozen circumstances of political and social unrest across the globe. The media gives us daily reminders of the current dilemmas we should be worried about, while often introducing new situations that demand our awareness. The world seems ever larger as we are expected to keep in mind an increasing level of knowledge of details happening everywhere within it.
I am not young, and I find this level of expectation unrealistic and imposing. The daily affairs of my own household are absorbing enough, and there are certainly local events that catch at my mind and soul. On a larger scale there are events that rivet the world’s attention briefly, and I have not forgotten the bombs in London subways. I watched in wonder and awe as this social responsibility enabled us to put a friend we had never met in person in touch with a complete stranger across the Atlantic to ensure that her son, traveling in Europe, was safe. With remarkable stories such as this I can hardly argue that our increasing interconnectedness is entirely a bad thing. The expansion of social circles to include people in other countries is mind-bending in wonderful ways, but the demands on our time and concentration can become overwhelming.
This phenomenon is not manifested only in the internet, although it is a most-easily pointed to symbol of the change in society. Blogs encourage us to put our lives on view for others, so that they may reach us from across the world. The cell phone is, for many, an indispensable tool of daily life. Writing letters is too slow and cumbersome a method of contact, because the necessity to connect with the world has become so broad and immediate that we need the fastest means possible. If this daily demand continues or, gods forbid increases, how will humanity adapt to meet it? Already I marvel at the younger generation, which is presented as having a large pool of friends to be contacted via cell phone when any major life event occurs. The definition of a major life event, too, has changed from my own understanding of it. I am given to understand that the pool of friends contacted are actually glad to receive any details because it helps to fulfill their own need to be connected to everything that is going on at any given time. Further opinions may be analyzed the same day via blog, and these details are to be met with excitement and gratitude for our greater interpersonal connection through them.
Perhaps it is age, maleness, or a combination of this and other factors that makes me suspicious and wary of such a broadcasted life. I feel there is little of my daily doings that would be of interest to anyone else. I enjoy sharing my opinions but I prefer to write them down and check my phrasing before putting them up for view. I do not own a cellular phone, and have no desire to. I still enjoy sitting down with the scattered pages of a newspaper, despite the ink it gets on my fingers. I feel that it is important to acknowledge the state of the world and even sometimes weigh in an opinion on the more distressing circumstances, but I find I simply cannot be bothered to worry over them on a daily basis. What society seems to expect of me in social awareness would only lead me into a nervous mental breakdown. I simply do not have the capability to meet the demands made on my attention. I cannot even be bothered to read books online, because the ads and toolbars and other assorted distractions impair my comprehension. Writing this on the Word program is difficult enough, with other programs lurking about behind the scenes, pulling at my attention. Therefore I will close this writing here and perhaps go sequester myself in a quiet room with tea, and a book.

I'm attempting to get back into playing, and gearing up for the Silent Hill plot that I'm hoping will start up soon. They've refused my request to add janitor Thorn into the mix as well, for very understandable reasons involving their already being overwhelmed as mods of the plot. No matter, I'll put moving him into the Nexus on the back burner for the moment and focus on the original Thorn instead. I meant to post nightmares to build up to the plot before now, but I haven't been at the keyboard much. I've written a bit and backdated posts, giving him roughly one nightmare a week since his encounter with the fog that's inspired it, although I lack one for this week, as of yet.
Because I haven't posted much writing here, and I keep meaning to, I present the nightmares all in one go. They're meant to create a sort of escalation towards the plot that will be happening, where he will be thrust into the dimension of Silent Hill. I welcome ideas for this week's nightmare, as I'm not sure when the plot is actually beginning.
( cut for length and disturbing imagery )

There are few things I love so passionately as this. I could live in a world where I had to forsake my sight, although it would be greatly missed; Unable to ever again read, look upon art, or see the faces of those I love, I would still have sound. In my old age leave me but this and I could have some contentment.
In some ways music can benefit from the absence of visual stimulation, unless what we see is rhythmically matched to what we hear. Pure sound communicates on a level which mere words cannot, no matter how elegantly or passionately written.
While individual tastes may vary greatly, there are certain tones which are universally held to be harmonious. Even extremely young children have some ability to distinguish between discordant sounds and harmonious ones, and many of these carry across cultural divides. Eastern music systems are written in an entirely different format than those of the Western world, recognizing what Europeans would consider half a key as a solid note in its own right, yet certain combinations of sound are agreed upon across these boundaries as unpleasant. We are all capable of hearing music of a foreign country, ignorance of the language rendering the words incomprehensible, and being moved by it nonetheless. Our voices, of course, greatly increase the chances of this but instrumental music also possesses the ability to cross backgrounds and languages. One can only imagine that first moment lost in time when someone first tapped out a rhythm and it must have had an infectious quality which has never been lost to the world. I prefer vocal music, likely older even than the tapping together of sticks or stones. Voice is the first instrument, the one which we are nearly all given and which can only be taken from us by the most dire of events. Vocal inflection is such a flexible tool that it renders grief and happiness communicable across all languages. We wail in sorrow, growl in anger, trill in happiness. All these expressions can be found in simple speech but reach newfound heights when brought into music. The mix of words and other vocal sounds into music creates an altogether new form of communication that transcends all others. A picture can evoke a mood or bring across a message beyond words, but it remains a static thing. Music moves, flows, pulls and pushes the senses in a way that is inescapably interactive. Music urges us to move to match its pace, as if it were a physical guiding force, and makes an invisible partner. Even when sitting still appreciating sound, one may be drawn to tap a foot or a finger, to bob ones head. Music has the ability to shape our mood even as an ambient background noise, and the ability to transport us to unexpected emotions and new understandings when embraced. All music follows some form of pattern and rhythm, even the most weaving chants of some Native American or Eastern music is born of a beat the singer feels from within. We are all born with an internal drum of changeable tempo in the form of our hearts, and many of us greet the world with our voices. Music is a primal force that is born from instincts which defy explanation but which bind us all together. Silence may be golden but music is made of blood and soul.