Tag Archives: pain

Stolen Steel Spine

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People have a strange relationship with the world.

Little busy creatures, bustling about. In all types of weather, all types of climates, all types of places. I watch them from afar, always studying. It is not a place of superiority, rather of curiosity. Stewing, I believe, is the term I’m looking for here.

My mind is not free from idea. My projects have slowed. But sometimes the need to write outweighs the want, and vice versa. It is the struggle of both that is so godamn tortuous. The thing I miss the most was spine. A writer’s voice. Mine has dwindled into a pathetic vomit of disjointed entries like this one, or as ambiguous pieces in the abstract. And the kicker is that there is no solid way of knowing whether or not it’s my voice as a writer, or just a load of fresh, steaming bullshit.

I think most of myself is twisted in hypocrisy and guilt. In spite of the light, it gets bent. Bent around experiences, fractured by pain, amplified by joy. But always malleable. It’s this fact that drives on the terrible point, hanging like an old noose at the gallows. Dramatic.

It’s all dramatic. Each emotion, each word I push forward feels like shit flavored molasses. I don’t have the will to write now. Not forever, mind you. But the strength of mind writing takes (for me) fails me. Fuck this entry, and fuck this day.

Lost with a Compass

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Days roll on by and the guilt of stagnation hangs with the meat until there is a call for action.

Completion of tasks, both great and small, go checked off until the lists are calm, until the day makes sense again. Wandering-

There is a stark honesty about apathy and sloth. They imply peace, but are often abused. The mind is a weak thing that must be cradled by willpower and bone, or it will break. Each stone pillar wears away in the desert sand until all is dust, slow but sure.

Writing has been hard. Mostly these types of entries flow because there is no point to them. They have no definitive purpose, nor is their journey valid or useful. Creating ideas in the brain that won’t translate -or can’t- into creation itself. There’s no more will to write anymore and there must be a rally within to find the spark once more. It feels forced and arbitrary. Wouldn’t read the words pushed out like a smeared shit.

Mostly the violence sticks out. Violence in the stories, especially the killing and dealing with loss and guilt. Envy. Stick to what is comfortable and profitable, but can there be a time when comfort is a liability opposed to an asset? Of fuckin’ course.

Setbacks at a later age are harder to cope with as responsibilities, anxieties, worries, and doubt build up inside an adult brain. Not enough space to cope. So it’ll get fixated. This one is fixed on violence.

Why the violence? Why the need for blood? Is there a hurt inside that is invisible to the world and its victim? Why such blind anger? Why the need to spit pain in all directions?

Forests sometimes have a path. Deep ones, ones that have been around for decades; tempt beauty off trail, but there is no solace or safety where there is no vision. Following a compass so the path is always known is not foolproof. Many, many times the forest will swallow travellers. Some find the path once more and travel to the intended destination, wiser for the experience as a whole. All too often, the direction, goal, and destination is lost or discarded, and there are mass graves of intention and loathing that conceal an endless supply of ignorant bodies.

Wander the woods, but keep an eye on the path. Death, metaphorical and tangible, comes in many forms and feelings.

Mind the deadfall.

A Zenith’s Umbra

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Bottled rage and pain are a collective pool in which all is poured and consumed. Shattered shards of sadness and lethargy mix with an indignant sense of apathy where the only viable goal is self destruction, or loathing. Concepts of self hatred change accordingly, always mesmerizing and out of reach. When a grasp is finally achieved, there is an abyss that draws all hope toward it, the choke of tears, the burn of frustration, exhaustive overwhelming waves of just…hopeless, hopeless pain. Most turn numb after a time but the burn of pain eats holes through this veneer and then the sensation of release is all too common. But there is no release. That rage and pain just can’t disappear, or be let go of. It is an anchor. Calcified with shadows from the crawling abyss of depression. Feel it sitting? Some could ask. But it isn’t a question, it’s a statement with a shit eating grin.

As the anchor rusts inside, those shards break off and get lodged in hope, fraying it. But there’s no way to let it out without violence at this point. A mild interjection, a disagreement they are drops in a bucket of blood, where the entire sea is red, and there are many drinkers- completely parched but on their hands and knees shoveling the gore into there gaping throats, dark as the abyss that spawned them. Many choose to kneel with them, some choose to observe, others ignore. There comes a point where the light at the end of the tunnel is a pinpoint harpoon of bloody light, where the only option is endless violence, endless fury, endless tears, all frustration. Throwing anger and pain out of itself until burned out and snuffed like the stove’s pilot. There can only be blood.

Violence calls out from the abyss, a voice and a guide. That endless depression, dragging and holding, clawing- choked; see what there is now but a bleached black skeleton rattling against itself in the silence of depression and darkness. The empty void- staring into an unlit room after nightfall, the maw of familiar things suddenly unknown- there are no guiding voices in the pitch black ink. There are only demons. There are no allies. Only imagined voices. Ingrained. Doubt clings to each other, creating clots that can only cause stroke.

So utterly sad. Just…so sad. It’s the best word. Despair feels cliche, sorrow, melancholy, the only thing that works is sad. Swirling down a filthy drain, clogging itself until the tub is full with psychic quicksand, which overflows and settles into the places that are forgotten inside. It is a fluid, anger a solid, they mix and do not blend. Drink it all down anyway, each urchin of unrelenting anger appearing in the outline of a clenched jaw, let it make deep slashes and allow the sadness to infect and help fester. Doubt settled there first, but it mixes nicely with anything, a whore on the spectrum. Shackled and tamed the pain gets worse as it is contained in a smaller and smaller space. There is the essence of anger, it grows and shrinks its vessel at the same time until there is no place left to go but everywhere and against itself.

Gouge a blood trench through death, each inch a reminder of mortality so final and pathetic in the last moments in such vulnerability where dark daggers plead suicide for the owner. But there is no suicide. There is no end. No. End. Except the only one that matters.

 

Corpses and Christmas

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Death comes in a strange haze that is punctuated by a sudden snap and loss of all control. Rarely is it quiet, even when done in secret, and the meat will fight to stay alive as long as there is a soul fueling the heart that still refuses to stop beating. It is also intimate. Private. To look upon a dead body, to see the last moments of life and the first moments of death frozen in the muscles; it is seen almost too causally, and tossed aside as something normal.

Death isn’t normal, it’s inevitable. There’s a difference. To watch someone decline, point A to point B, and then be there, to stare at the body, to feel the loss. The gravity. There’s nothing normal about it. Last week, my grandfather finally died, and I say finally because he had severe dementia, and ultimately, it cost him his life. A grim blessing, truly.

Work doesn’t have time for death, so I was working like usual. The call I received was simple, gentle. He was gone, and it had been a long time coming. I’ve only seen a dead body once before, to be honest. For as much as I write about death and the consequences of it, I have little face to face experience with it. But like most things in life, one is often woefully prepared for grievous situations no matter how well adjusted they claim, or have tried, to be. I am no exception.

Walking into my grandfather’s room at home, I smelled…illness. Medicine, old sweat, piss, shit, sadness, impatience, boredom. I approached his form under the sheet, but his face wasn’t covered. He was on his side to alleviate the pain in his lung from the night before, still in the same position I had left him when I said goodnight to him. I remember holding his hand as he gripped the safety rail on the side of his bed. He still gripped that rail. I sat down beside him, and looked into his face. What I saw is now burned into my skull, my very godamn bones.

His skin was yellow and thick, like looking at candlewax covered in a thin, dessicated membrane. His mouth was slightly open, as were his eyes. They hadn’t closed them. I looked into those eyes, seeing a flicker of his iris. A clot of bright green mucus clung to his nose and upper lip, they had not cleared it. As I stared at him, I couldn’t help but feel…hate. Anger. Not at him, or my family, but unguided.

Touching him was a terrible mistake. His skin was freezing, slightly damp, and rigid. I tried to hold his hand, but it was resistant to movement thanks to rigor mortis. I had this maddening thought, this terrible thought, that I needed to wash my hands right away. I felt like I had taken some of that death. He lay there for several hours as we waited for the funeral home to take away his remains. Even though he was gone long before they took him, I never felt the void until he was no longer in the house.

Void. The perfect word.

My grandfather was dead, and I thought I was prepared for it. In truth, my experiences with death have never been normal, so I don’t understand why the subject is so simply dealt with by so many others. I feel that his death was a miserable, lingering experience that a man of his worth and caliber did not deserve. But, I am no god. I have no power here. I am merely another hunk of meat trying to make sense of more death in a world so alive.

I hate the casual way death is approached in modern times. Or disrespected. It is downplayed, accepted, spun, altered, hidden, applied, dictated, ordered, natural and forced, among other things, and it is the final answer to a question that was asked at birth, the question that burns inside every one of us until the day we blink when staring death in those empty, black sockets.

Death is not a stranger to me. I am surrounded by it, as all we are. And I can feel the clawing black sometimes. It’s like a rotted bridal veil that we all look at the world through. Death and I have a strange acceptance for one another. Well, at least an acceptance that a man and an intangible force of nature can have together. Death comes. Death is always coming, and we must all be ready for it. Even when we aren’t. Even when it’s our own.

The night before I left him, I could feel his beating heart and shallow breaths. Together, the sensation in the room felt like pleas, or prayer under the husk of death because he lost his power of speech a few days before he died. I watched him, laboring under his illness, and could only think to say, “…”

Nothing.

Dark Work

by in 99 Cent Novellas and tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Profound inspiration, or a driving will to create are often sparked by periods of intense emotional trauma, and are usually sustained by said trauma until the writer can find another source for production. This is true for many. Not all, but many, and I am one of those “privileged” few.

I have been working with Melias on and off for some time now, going with the ebb and flow of my mood swings. Out of a particularly dark mood, I created Gruun, a barbarian half-orc with a conscience and a penchant for honesty and raw beef. I don’t have a picture of him yet, so I’ll give you the details if you’re obsessive. He stand seven feet, two inches tall, covered in muscle. His skin is a rich, but muddy green, and he bares two large tusks that jut out of his bottom jaw line. His sword is five and a half feet long, and weighs about 125lbs. He is my response to a world that is strong enough to hold you down with a single finger.

He is the response (no, this is not going to be about politics, religion, or Syria) to a world that I see having much injustice, with too many good, decent people being hurt, exploited, and corralled by terror. Gruun is the terror. He is fear incarnate for the dark forces that perpetuate Melias, and he knows it.

I created Gruun out of need. We all struggle with darkness in life. Regardless of what that black spot on your soul may be, you know it’s there, and it wants you to know it. That’s Gruun. He is all of my basic Id feelings and actions wrapped around a good, decent, honest foundation. And wouldn’t you know it? He’s one of my favorite characters to write as.

I am still writing. I had a drought on WordPress because…I didn’t have anything worthwhile to share with anyone, to be honest. In that same vein, I am still on the fence whether or not I do, in fact, have anything worthwhile to share, but that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that I kept working. Thinking. Going. Like we all must.

I’m being a Shitty Writer.

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Alright ladies and gentlemen, listen the fuck up please.

These last few sample chapters I’ve been posting have been utter shit- just…fuckin’ diarrhea, fresh from my ass, onto my keyboard, through my screen, and directly into your eyes and I am sorry. So, what Im gonna do. Is overhaul each and every single chapter I’ve posted on this website (Except for Warrior Shaman. it needs to be edited, sure. But I KNOW I nailed that shit to the fuckin’ WALL YO) until awesome and then re-post them one by one, whether you like it or not.

I am sorry for my shitty work. I forgot that it is very easy to become those shit spewing, self centered asshole writers I am always slamming on. And THAT. Is not something I ever want to become. Never.

Peace bitches YEAH   8======D

MODERN WARFARE, YEAH

New Projects, Old Ideas

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I have an idea.

I’ve been working a lot on Blestemul, but I’ve never undertaken a project this big before (it’s a long book, that’s all) and I find myself getting bored. Not to the point where I want to stop, mind you. No way. But I need something different to occupy my brain. I need to create something new. I don’t know why, and maybe? I don’t wanna know. But enough of that. Here’s my idea.

I’m thinking of creating a book, or a series of novellas, based on one character that is untouchable. Not invincible, untouchable. Undefeatable. And a whole shit ton of more -ables to come. Don’t think about the character, though. Think about this instead. What would you do if you could pursue any personal objective/mission/quest and know that you could not be stopped? I am creating a character that has no physical flaws, none, and can literally achieve any objective he puts his mind to.

Where’s the fun in that? Well. That’s the second part of my idea.

I plan to use this character as a way to express protest against modern issues and ideals for my own personal satisfaction. Think about all the travesties in the world. Think about all the people starving, dying, murders, rape, abuse, war, killing, destruction, etc. Think about how powerless you feel sometimes about these issues. Now imagine yourself being able to tackle these problems, alone, and solving them however you wished. Knowing full well that your agenda cannot be stopped. That’s the kind of character that I making, and that is the “lofty” goal I wish to achieve.

Say this plan takes off. I have a few more ideas that I want to put into play to see what happens. Just to find out how things will end up.

Humans for the most part cannot change the world. Activism, protest, petitions. They do good, true, but there aren’t enough well wishes, likes on facebook, donations, or philanthropists to solve the biggest problems we face everyday. War, for one, cannot be stopped by anything. But. What if you were the only thing that could stop it? What would you do?

That’s what this new book(s) will be exploring. The will of one man and that cannot be stopped, and how he can change the world. Am I writing it as an inspiration piece? Not really. In all honesty, I just really want to write about killing and maiming the enemies of humanity.

Writing with a Weapon

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Events in the world today make me fucking sick.

As humanity drags itself along a shattered glass highway, leaving a trail of shit and blood for us all to follow, I cannot help but feel a glimmer of rage that burns until nothing but hatred is left behind. Hate is a strange thing. Directed, it can change the world. Unsupervised, it can destroy it- but let’s not talk about hate right now. Let’s talk about what we can do in a world that wants to keep us all under control.

The pen is mightier than the sword, I’ve heard. And I think that’s bullshit. A sword is something that we can all understand, a symbol of violence and death, or a symbol of order and justice. Or pick your own meaning. No, the pen isn’t mightier than the sword. They are both tools, and the sword is clearly the better tool. The writer is the real lethal weapon. Rather the mind, the human mind, so hopelessly complex and always changing, always shrouded in mystery. There is the true weapon. Creation. Imagination.

One could read into the above phrase and discern what I have said, but at its bare face value, I’ve always hated that godamn phrase. It’s so…one sided and ambiguously frank. Why write with a pen and ignore the sword? Why not write with a sword?

Write with a sword.

I like to wield writing as a weapon. I like to administer punishment for the people who read my work. Force atonement. Just once, just once with one piece of work. As I peer into the abyss that is this planet and all the humans on it, I find that the inky black soup that has become our collective soul as a species churns with violence and anger. Opinions, words, thoughts, they are lost in that abyss.

Me? I don’t think I’ll change the world. Or maybe I’m being humble. Or maybe, changing the world is my goal, but I don’t think I’m up to the task. Or maybe I’m just blowing a thick column of smoke up your ass. Smoke that comes from a special source- a pile of burning bullshit.

Who knows. Who cares? Not me.

Wield writing as a weapon, godamn you. I see too many writers censoring themselves, lacking confidence, lying to themselves, procrastinating. It makes me sick. Writers used to be hard and desperate people, not the elevated “literary” pseudo-intellectuals that enjoy the sound of their own voice, a voice that sounds to me like a sloppy shit.

Teachers, professors, literary agents, publishers, editors. They all tell you to write a certain way, to be refined, to make changes where you don’t want to make changes, to write what they want you to write, all the meanwhile, you are dying. Your creativity is dying. Why be refined? Why submit to format? Who gives a flying fuck about MLA rules? Citing your sources correctly? Who fuckin’ cares if my essay doesn’t have a godamn intro, body, and conclusion? Who the fuck are you to tell me how I should be fuckin’ writing? Nobody, that’s who.

Fuck the teachers. The professors, the literary agents, the publishers, editors, bosses, friends, acquaintances, proofreaders, police, politicians, fuck ’em all! They all seek to stifle your voice with formatting, rules, and/or censorship. No, no, no, use your writing like a weapon. Wield what you write, don’t read it! Where is your spine as a writer? Where has your fucking fire gone?

Get dirty! Write violence, fucking, dying, breeding- write what you feel and only what you feel, and if someone doesn’t like it, who. Gives. A. Flying. Fuck?

My next project is going to be just that. It is going to be a piece, or pieces, of writing that will be written with a sword. Too long have we all conformed to what our “teachers” and “leaders” have told us. I am writing a piece that will attack, that will punish, that will make people think differently through personal connection, or by completely hating me.

Do I want attention? I don’t know. All I know is I’m going to write without boundaries anymore. Without rules. I’m going to strike this planet with my words, and inflict the pain and anger that I have screaming inside of me that I cannot let out. I am going to write like a savage, and there is nothing this fuckin’ world and all its bullshit can do to stop me.

Don’t let it stop you, either.

Writing and the Mind- Getting Back on Track

by in The Chronicles of Urth: Blestemul and tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Finding the strength to write is like gripping sand.

Dragging myself out of the brine of complacency, I have lied to myself as to where I need to be, and what I need to do. The mind is a terrible thing. Not to waste, but a terrible thing. I have imagined and seen things in my mind’s eye that have irrevocably changed how I think. By a little bit. Every day. Completely changing, over and over again. That’s how all minds work. Not just mine. I’m not unique there.

I’ve been writing again. Who knows why the flow slows? Who knows why my stomach drops when I think about slamming down a few more words outta a keyboard? I don’t know. And I’ve spent too much time in my life trying to figure out a final reason, a final truth. It might as well be a holy grail for Christsake. Unattainable. Impossible. Unreachable. The mind is too complex for me, or for anyone else to fully understand.

I’ve discovered that forcing myself to write just a little bit begins the flow again. I haven’t been able to write for hours in a long time, but I can feel the inspiration coming. It happens like this every time I write a novel; I reach a point where I’m goin’ through the motions, and then I come back full force. I can feel it. It’s there. As for drawing and art, there isn’t much left now. Concept art for Blestemul I mean. In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been clutching and clawing for exposure through posting pictures. Simply because the content of my blog has been shit lately.

Time to get back on track. I’ve written over 200 pages in this new book, and I’ll I’ve been doing is pissin’ and moanin’ about how hard writing is when I should be doing the thing I created this fuckin’ blog for. So here we go.

As of right now, I’ve been trying to develop character connections through difficult experiences and trust loops. Along with this, I’ve been changing my main character, twisting him into something the reader might not like. But I always have a plan when it comes to something like this. I won’t disappoint.

As for the beginning of the novel, it starts out simply enough. An alcoholic, washed-up “soldier” eeks out a living on some godforsaken shit hill town when an opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of himself presents itself. Alistar, the main character, has given himself up to the demon, Blestemul, his symbiotic demon-pistol. Stuck inside his head, the demon goads, supports, and torments him as he strikes back at those who have held him down, and are continuing to destroy other peoples’ lives in plain view, under the guise of innocent righteousness.

I also tried to break stereotypes in this book. I created races that seem more bestial, but I developed them like any other “human” character. They have personalities, they wear clothes, cologne, they have opinions, jokes, likes, dislikes, loss and gain. It shows that a good person is a good person, and one can transcend any ignorance with a little effort.

Right now, one friend of Alistar’s, Kone, is missing. One recovered after a traumatic event that she (Jala) shared with AListar, and Spek is now looking for Kone inside of a primordial and very dangerous swamp. They are close to reaching the location of their main objective, and then the book should take off with aggression and grace.

That’s where I am. Now you know, and now I’ve said it. Wrote it. And I feel better. I’m giving you the writing you deserve to read. Am I god’s gift to the written word? NO. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to try. Thanks for reading and sticking with my fury. I won’t disappoint you. I promise.

Stepping Forward in Shit

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Life can be a real sour cunt, you know that?

I’ll warn you now. I’m gonna bitch and moan and have meaningful insight all in this motherfucker, so if you’re bored already, stop reading. Still here? What’s wrong with you? Anyway, the world will shit on you, disappoint you, wear you out and fuck you up. And it’s not just big things. You’d be surprised how often a little bump in the path can totally throw someone off the deep edge. Definitely a “straw that broke the camel’s back” situation. These past few weeks have been very tough for many people. Saying that, these last few decades have been very rough for some people. Many people, so as much as I want to bitch and moan about how annoying my life can be, I don’t. I don’t because there are others out there that would love to have my life.

Am I grateful? Sometimes. Sometimes I just want to smash anyone that looks at me cockeyed. Other times, I want to set myself ablaze and stand unflinching in a shopping mall, never screaming as people watch in horror as I amble towards them. Sometimes I want to be feared. Hated. Respected. Powerful. I feel my fists clench, my jaw tighten, and my patience wear thin, and a familiar burning resentment towards others that I envy boils up from my core, spills over, and all I want to do is shit all over the world and watch it burn down with me.

Looking for a positive turnaround paragraph? Nope. Not here. I guess you could say that this is a more…jaded and cynical part of my life, or more accurately, week. Usually edged with sarcasm to fake my own intelligence, but let’s just say what this shit boils down to. Jealousy. I am jealous. Competitive. I always have been. I don’t mind if my wife talks to other men. Kisses them, hugs them, fuck even flirts with them. Because I trust her. But every drop of testosterone I own in this haggard carcass surges right from my balls and into my brain when I see someone else trying to make a move on her. I am jealous of others that have more than me, have less than me (by choice), are smarter than me, stronger than me, all sorts of stupid mortal-based petty bullshit that now as I write, feels like angsty emo horseshit. Perhaps I need to save me from myself while I cut myself to feel because I’ve been asleep so long that I need someone to save me.

Or perhaps this is just a rough patch, and I need to get over myself and be happy for what I have, and what I can create. Anger and frustration are a part of life, and I certainly don’t help my situation with personality. I hide behind a wall of sarcasm and faux intelligence to hide what I am: Jealous, angry, and resentful. Secretive and obsessive. Hateful. Intense. And at times? Ignorant.

Do I want pity? Fuck no. What do I want? Fuck if I know. Or no. Don’t care. Most of the time. Sometimes?