Thursday, February 4, 2010
I love to write.
It's not so much out of boredom, or because school demands it, but because I have too.
Let me explain...
It's something that's ingrained in me, both mentally and physically. If I don't feel my fingers depressing upon a keyboard for more than fifteen minutes a day, then I start to get the shakes, begin to sweat, and if left long enough begin to have convulsions. And, I'm afraid to say, it's an addiction I can't sweat out. Trust me, I've tried.
I believe that everyone has at least one good story to tell in their lifetime. (I know I've stolen this from someone, but from whom I'm not sure. If anyone knows who this might be, then please drop me a note in the comments section and let me know. It'd be greatly appreciated!) But, like many people I'm different, in the respect that I have more than one story to tell.
And before anything further is said, I guess I should make the reader -- you -- aware that I have tried to just not write, but that just ain't going to happen, and here's why: my imagination won't let me.
The best way to explain it would be to use the analogy of too many people under one roof, at one time. If you have ever had relatives stay over at your house during a holiday, or ever put them together in a small cramped room, with no air conditioning, with a 120 degree temperature outside, and they haven't eaten all day, then you can probably relate to my predicament.
Imagine my mind as a 12 X 12 room at max capacity, and that there's always between thirty to fifty-five people occupying it at one time. It's hot, cramped, and people are pissed because they're well, hot, cramped and haven't eaten all day.
Whether by murder, or authority, someone is gunna get the boot.
This is the way I feel with all of the characters that occupy my mind. Now, I've tried booting their asses out, but they seem to find a way back in; I'm afraid that my mind isn't the 12 X 12 Impenetrable Fortress that I had thought it too be, because they keep showing up. I boot them out, each time a little bit harder than the last, and they still end up showing back up a few days later.
Through trial and error, I have found that the only way to get said characters out of the 12 X 12 Impenetrable Fortress in my head, I have to write them out. And usually, as soon as I write them out, a new character pops their head in a few hours later to see what's going on. Most times they stay.
I am ALWAYS writing people out.
Why? Because every character that shows up in the Impenetrable Fortress ends up staying a while, and after a few days/weeks/months, I get to know that character; I learn about them. What their favorite food is, their favorite color, who they're in love with, what their ambitions in life are, what they're afraid of; all of these things and more.
And just like everyone who has a story to tell, these characters have a story about them that needs to be told.
From out of thin air, to the 12 X 12 Impenetrable Fortress in my mind, to words on a screen -- produced by my very nimble fingers -- I am their ferryman, I get them from one side of the shore to another.
Without me, they wouldn't be aloud the privilege to come to life, and occupy a bunch of pages. I give them life, and I get them to where they need to go.
I'm a ferryman and a writer.
It's what I do.
Not by choice, but by necessity.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I don't really have much to put up here for now, besides a few new weekly things that I will be implementing here within the next few days -- upwards even of a week -- so hang around and we'll see what becomes of this site. I still don't have a real good idea of what I would like to do with The Bloody Pen, but I don't think it matters much so long as I'm getting some writing in.
So, until I start posting weekly bits, I figured I'd post up a poem that I wrote a little over a year ago, in the transition period between President George W. bush and -- at the time -- President-Elect Obama. It was then that I realized that this lovely nation of ours was going down the toilet fast -- knew it even before then, with good ol' Bush and the Patriot Act -- and so I wrote this poem. There were many things that I wanted to say, and many more that were stillj flaoting around in my brain but hadn't found any mental ground to anchor too. Both types of ideas show up in this piece; where one ends and the other begins, I couldn't point out to you, because it all just poured out of me in about twenty minutes.
There's a lot that is being said in it, and I think I'm noticing these things more so now that I can sit back and read it over without having those ideas flaoting around in my head. And when I do read it I find that there are even more things being said than what I originall intended.
Okay, I'll shut up now, here's the poem:
The Final Jest
Cut out the weakness; prolong the sickness,
Corrupt the single minded body; this giant,
Just look me in the eyes and say I'm wrong,
Even though deep inside you know that I'm right,
A government for the people and by the people,
No longer exists, it's a flat out lie; the final jest,
They'll smash the ancient scrolls with giant fists,
And bring about the chains of tyranny that instill us,
Swallow the bitter pills of ash, blood and fate,
And fall into bed with their lies and justification,
Smile sweetly as the pictures taken,
And cry as the world burns beneath your feet,
Your tears will stain the pages of history,
And then they'll see, just like you and me,
That we were manipulated and taken for the fool,
Your slate wiped clean; lost in the sands of time,
This is the final warning that shall be given brothers,
Hear the angels harp as it cries out for blood!
Retribution is needed; raise your arms in defense,
Remember to smile politely when they take you away,
Dance the dance of death; the final jest,
And sing with me as we bleed for them,
Bittersweet victory, we've won at last!
Glorify the Lord's name and watch them burn in hell.