inkyoctopus

I am done with Evening Rises in the Necropolis. Things took a strange turn last week--I thought of a scene I had no intention of writing, ever. I debated with myself as to whether I should write it at all, as I had told myself that such a scene did not belong in the story, but the story really wanted it. A lovely little scene, and then wandering in the city I tasted Spanish fig cake, and knew it was just the thing to serve at The Mouth of Hell. After that, the story sort of felt like it was reaching its conclusion, like it was winding down, despite the fact that there were two or even three more adventures that I thought the wounded girl sho

In the next world war Jackknifed juggernaut, I am born again. In the neon sign, scrolling up and down I am born again. Interstella burst.... I am back to save the universe. In a deep deep sleep, of the innocent I am born again. In a fast german car, I'm amazed that I survived An airbag saved my life. Interstella burst.... I am back to save the universe.

The writing I've been doing lately has been like exposing my heart and my scars and my wounds for all to see, within the language of fable, fable which is not myth, fable has narrative, which adds shading and nuance to the essential. Myth is too close to the essence, to the essential, to be really true. Although you're probably about to disagree that, if myth is essence, myth is truth. No. I think myth is too close to the truth to be true. Myth is symbols, myth is black and white and people don't live that way. Maybe the way people live is to have lies, but if that's the way people live, then it is true for human existence. The truth of huma