Blogpost 2, and also, no internet for a few days.

This is another afternoon page because I have no internet at home, and had to rush to Collage Ave for a free T-shirt. Instinct to grab free things still strong and present, but toned down due to lethargy and general craving for non-free bananas.

I suppose it's a childish and bad habit of mine to start something and not finish it. Like the stories I used to write. I will write them and finish them (eventually), but right now I can't seem to steer the plot to something remotely readable.

This goes to the wolves and unicorns that have magical adventures in my head at night before I go to sleep. That way, my dreams are always epic.

I will now continue my Afternoon Page story:

The wolf turned around and found another wolf glaring at it. This wolf was Odean, but he liked to be called Lord Odean because he was, after all, high and mighty and had an impressive black staff made of some exotic tree. The wolf glowered at the other wolf. Confusion arose because there is ambiguity in which wolf was staring at which.

“I hope you've gotten the... 'merchandise' I .. 'ordered' a week previous,” growled (Lord) Odean. The dimension-traversing wolf smiled and threw him a satchel. (Lord) Odean glared.

“This isn't what I asked for.” He said.

“You haven't even checked!” said the dimension-traversing wolf.

(Lord) Odean glared at his agent. “Ten elephants?” He deadpanned. The dimension-traversing wolf shrugged.

“I can traverse dimensions.” He said, as if it was some sort of explanation.

“So what, this thing is bigger on the inside?”

“No, I had your elephants desiccated and ground up into ten-elephant-powder.”

(Lord) Odean snorted, and snapped the string that held the satchel shut.

Ten elephants, in their pachyderm glory, burst out of the satchel with a roaring trumpet. Gold and silver confetti, shaped like stars and birthday cake, accompanied the ensemble. So did real trumpets. And a purple tuba.

Half the street was crushed. The other half was reduced to squid from residual magic.

The dimension-traversing wolf shook his head and walked away.  

Rant + Story + Modified Morning Pages or Afternoon Page because I woke up late

This is my first attempt at 'Morning Pages'. I Googled it and I was supposed to write it in pen and paper. But this saves time and I have not developed the habit of going back and editing blocs of text yet. Also since I'm not doing it exactly as it is, I'll do one page a day instead of the usual three. One page is good enough for a blogpost too, I gather. I am not sure how long I will keep this up, because I like to take the excuse of 'real life' getting in the way of all things creative and amusing and beautiful. Notice how I did not capitalized 'real life'. This either shows that I do not consider it as notable as Whales, or have gotten bored of directing sarcasm at its importance. Like 'Life' and 'School' and 'Exams' and stuff. I like school and life and exams, but they have gotten old and repetitive and the young and stupid side of me yearns for more.

That concludes one paragraph. Now on to another paragraph. Maybe I'll write a story now. Here goes.

One day there was a house and in that house was nothing because the house was old and dilapidated. No one lived in that house, but the house was not sad because it was not alive and technically did not have feelings. However, no one had ever bothered to ask if the house had feelings, so even if it did, no one would know anyway. If no one knew, the house probably did not have feelings. It was something like that riddle; 'If a tree falls in an empty woods, will it make a noise?' I would think it does, because noise requires the vibrations of air particles (and other particles. Tree particles? Ground particles?). But what about noise? Is the presence noise dependent on a person feeling annoyed by it? Of is something noise if it has no use? Well, I still think that it makes a noise, because if I imagine it and then it exists in my head and I'm hearing the noise. This brings to mind St. Anselm's argument about the Existence of God. The Ontological Argument. It contains arguments like 'if god exists in your imagination, but then god is so awesomely greater than what you can conceive, then god must exist in the real world because existing in the real world is awesomely greater than existing in your mind. I won't go into my stand on the existence of god and gods right now. We have a story to continue.

The next day, the house was still there. The house was not rotting because it existed in a place where time did not pass. It sort of did, but didn't, because while there were days, nothing changed. It was sort of like existing in a perpetual state of preservation. A museum piece that never rusted, never got dusty, never got eaten by moths or prodded by over-eager fingers. Another day, a dimension-traversing wolf stumbled upon the house, and regarded it with a sniff of his snout.

“Whose idea was it,” he said, “to build a house here?”

There was no one there, so no one replied. The wolf shook his head, and entered the house. In the house was a bottle of magic elixir, a panacea, a cure for all ailments. But then, the house was not supposed to have anything, and since now it had something in it, the dimension it existed in became unstable and started to collapse. “Whoops, that's my cue,” said the wolf, and he grabbed the glowing blue bottle and dashed out into a dimension with sky-whales and muffin-waffles.

The instability of the blue bottle followed the wolf.

The dimension with sky-whales and muffin-waffles had a seaport empire built on trade, and the wolf was one of its many familiar vendors. The wolf donned his coat of a hundred murdered birds and melted into the crowd of merchants and fortune-seekers, their wares and offerings clinking and clanking in suspicious-looking gunny sacks promising wonders. The wolf's sack did not promise any sort of wonders, and was dull gray. This was sort of a rule in seaport trading squares and fantasy stories; the showier you are, the less impressive or important your wares, and the duller, shabbier you are the more magical, exotic, mindblowing, I-have-the-potential-to-save-the-world are your things.

The wolf felt a tap on his shoulder.

Another unfinished beginning of a sort of story

I don't think I've ever posted this before. This, I think, was supposed to be the beginning of some long story about crazy heroes.  How original. -_-

I'll write short stories first before I go all ambitious to write a whole series of children's fantasy books. Hm. 

Enjoy if you will. If you can, please criticize.

********************************* 

In the end of a cave in a mountain under a sea in the middle of a desert of a floating island sat the weaver of souls. It was a she, and she weaved the tapestry of life in the odd old way of ancient cats - with a cuttlefish bone - except her tool never went dull. Her wool was the finest and it was in the stitches that one reads the ephemeral tale of each creature, and only in the rarest of occasion was the coarse threads used. She weaved away at a pace that found time negligible, and some say she had been weaving since the world began, or that it was she who weaved the world to life.

She had a companion, a chimerical beast of a dog with two tails, who would pull at the woven strings if he were compelled to, for if she finished weaving the world would end.

She didn’t really need him, however, for there were heroes in their world.

She had started at a neat patch, branching away, away, away neatly to other lives and other times of many many other creatures. She wove in great feats and interesting times and patterns that the eyes can scarce comprehend or mortal hands replicate. Then she wove the heroes, and was stuck with an unruly corner ever since.

She wove a straight path for a hero, to an early and painful death because that was how heroes went if they were to be remembered, and left it at that. From the frayed strings of his moribundity she started with a new life that would end the same.

The day came and passed, and she faltered. She looked at the pattern for the hero, and knew all was not right. There was a stitch out of place – fate has shifted somewhat. She unpicks the thread with a deer antler and weaves another. From the ending of that thread she begins another one anew.

The next day passes, and she finds another one, out of place in an awkward corner – little and barely there. She unpicks it with skill and weaves with her cuttlefish bone.

More days passed in the world and more knots were displaced. She unpicks those with the patience of a saint and weaves again.

The beast of a dog sits and watches with disinterest.

Heroes lived and died, but there were far more that lived these days. The weaver weaved and picked and weaved again.

Right Ear Aching

There is an

Ache

In my

Ear

And I will Google it

To see

Whether

There is something wrong

Or maybe it’s the itch

Which

I thought

Wasn’t real

Back now

For I have

Disregarded

It

It wants

Revenge

They're Lining Up at the Bus Stop

One hero said to another, “Which route are you taking?” The hero who knows his trade will know what the other is talking about.

At the bus station of all heroes, all heroes set out to trod their paths and plot their courses – in that order – though usually there was no use in watching* the maps and schedules because they’d end up one way or the other in some situation. It’s in the roads.

There used to be a time when there was just the path, that many paths that were already there and the hero/es set forth to their adventure. Those were the first heroes, the founding fathers, or maybe mothers, though maybe he or she was just one person, masquerading as many others.

Then there were more, and wider roads, and perhaps a dirt path or two winding away into the woods; a scenic route that brought you back to your tarmac and deliver you (safely) to your destination. The self-serving hero might bring the odd horse or two, but all that did was muck up the roads.

Roads were there because of cars, but sometimes the car came first.

There were too many cars to carry all of the heroes, so they had trains, taxis, busses, though it was high time they’d gotten a ferry or a jet-plane. The busloads of heroes are carted every day to their destination, taking the same road over and over again.

-------

* I know, not the right word, but it's intentional.

If I wrote Like This In Class

 "Elephantfuseboxthecolorblue and Nothing Worth Mentioning"

The key to everything is balance, and family reunions are annoying because you have to be there. You would like to retreat into your brain and play Pokemon, but it would be disappointing because the console and pixilated monsters are not real. The human mind treads the very line between the abstract mind, soul, emotional self and the concrete body, physical being, and appendix that brings no end of trouble. Why we do it have left scientists puzzled for centuries, but back then they were called philosophers because ancient Egyptians, advance in medicine as they were, threw the brain away and marinated the physical body in hopes that their dead relatives will get resurrected. We as the living, however, would perhaps love to exist in a non-physical state like a cloud – a cloud of emotions and feelings and the occasional thunder to zap another cloud that annoyed you – and discard altogether what us higher beings regard as sometimes pointless, like when you bash your knee on the corner. But alas, the Pokemon, a mere concept brought to life by programmers and pixels, are concrete. We cannot exist in either state  - as a zombie or as a dead, freeflying soul – because we are human. 

But what does this all mean to us, as humans? Let us examine the intricate web of roti jala that we live in. Each person is in effect a strand, and each strand is connected to the other. If you get enough of these strands tangled up, you’d get a ball of lint – dirty grey – that you fish out of your pocket and wish to discard. It’s a mess, and sometimes, it seems useless. But then you realize, after throwing your wad of lint away, that your house keys were stuck in it. Conflict. Drama. Cathartic experience. Don’t throw your lint away, especially when it is suspiciously big and heavy.

Still, what does this all mean? And what do elephants have to do with anything? Everything, says the wise man. Go fix the fuse box, it’s malfunctioning again, says the wise woman. Silly woman, I can’t do that, says the man. O why not? Says the woman. Drama. Conflict. The house burns down. The elephants watch from afar, pounding the wires they pulled out of the fuse box into the dirt. They are smart, after all.

In the end, it means nothing, because the Egyptians’ culture died out and no one threw out the brains anymore. This has brought no end of trouble, because there are debates on what blue means, but in the end, there will always be someone who insists that the sky is blue and the clouds are white or grey even if you see it as yellow with purple speckles.