It Came From Outer Space…

I haven’t been able to eliminate distractions enough to write much of anything lately. I could use the excuse that I’m adjusting to new medications but that’s not entirely it. It’s just that I’ve not been in the right frame of mind, but I realize forcing and pushing myself to write is not the way. I’ve been continuing with some writing exercises, copying down different plots that I’ve had over the years and trying to expand on them a bit more.

I’ll continue with the writing exercises here. They may be short but they’re enough to prove to myself that I have the ability; and every little bit helps when it comes to the overall story that I’m concocting. It’s not as if I’m having to write briefs for Mesothelioma lawyers so in theory it should be easy, but at the same time some times the muse just isn’t there and no amount of forcing yourself to write like eking blood from a stone is going to make it happen. It just breeds resentment for whatever you’re working on and makes things harder overall.

This was originally written when I was in college, about my now ex. I have tried to pare it down some so that it is less fully of whine and hopefully conveys the image more succinctly.

I cry icy tears that burn my eyes,
This weakness holds you strong around me,
A sanctuary I remember fondly
Embracing wave,
inside a fountain,
beside a waterfall,
despite my innocence we proved wise,
despite conversation we remained
yet now desolate again

It’s funny how lost love tends to cause poetry but also how it tends to cause sucky poetry that has to be improved once the emotion is less fully active.

I have a major problem with procrastinating. It’s so easy for me to get distracted. The internet has too many shiny things on. I keep thinking that I should just disconnect the internet from the computer for a few hours a day and then I would be able to write more cohesively, but then I would also have to uninstall all the computer games. No more solitaire, or bejeweled or insaniquarium.

If it’s not that sort of thing I find myself reading through all the spam comments and spam emails I get that don’t get caught by the various filters. I’ve lost count of the number of offers I receive to get free life insurance quotes or check out hot nude girls, or enlarge various portion sof my anatomy (that I don’t even have).

All of these add up to excuses when all is said and done. I have lost the discipline I need to actually write for an hour or two per day. I have to work at regaining that discipline. I know I can do it. I’ve won NaNoWriMo twice before. I just have to be strict with myself, like I have to be strict with myself about my diet too.

I’m not sure when I originally wrote this one. It’s been sitting around for a while. It’s an exploration of accepting positive feelings.

Caught in the tangle,
Move me folded in on you,
I am within, without,
You have me deep
No exceptions.
My heart in your chest.
I can be clear crystal
Now I have eyes
I will answer your call.

It’s a bit like arranging the patio furniture in the shed so that you can get to it the easiest once the weather is suitable to use it again. That’s the way I’ve been working recently.

I’ve been making logs of the different stories I have that I’ve started. At one point when I was in high school had about 63 different story ideas written down in various notebooks. Since then I’ve realized that not all of those story ideas would work, or I’ve been able to combine some of them together to make them better.

Still my thoughts are generally cluttered and I jump from one to the other to the other without finishing something entirely. This is not a good thing. If I ever want to be published I need to actually be able to finish something, so I’ve decided to be systematic. I’ve been writing out all the various ideas, in brief, and then organizing them. I have several stories which would work along the same “time line” but be at different points, so that shows me I need to actually work on the timeline overall to make sure that I can make each story work and compliment each other without poking holes in my own universe. Others are stand-alones so they could be worked on independently or even in tandem — if I’m feeling particularly masochistic.

Sorting out the time lines and synopses is a good thing though because it means then that I can plan out my method of attack and how I’m actually going to get one story finished and then another, and then another.

“I’ve said before,” Abby said, stirring her swizzle stick around in her drink out of habit, “I’m glad that you came down to visit but some of the things you’ve been talking about…”
“I know,” Hajime admitted, staring into the bowl of the virgin Margarita in the hopes the answers might come up from the icy green depths. They didn’t oblige. She let out a sigh.
“I want to believe you,” Abby said, “I just–”
“I know it’s crazy,” Hajime replied.
She looked up at Abby then. Abby could see how drained her best friend was. This wasn’t the normal new at college so many nights studying, cramming caffeine and information on little sleep sort of drained, this was soul-deep and it made Abby uncomfortable in a pit of her stomach she hadn’t even known existed.
“I don’t think it’s necessarily crazy–” Abby started, to be interrupted by a loud explosion from the booth behind them. This was the fourth time that night the preppy group of potential sorority people had disturbed them and Abby was at the end of her tether with it, doubly so because she would have much rather had this conversation at home but the presence of her boyfriend who was rapidly declining in her estimation towards douchebag meant that it wasn’t a good place to have a comforting conversation with your best friend who was being plagued by all sorts of weirdness while trying to study.
Abby turned round on the booth. She was resting her knees on the seat so that she was slightly higher than most of the drunken women. They didn’t notice her, so she banged on the top of the booth seat with her fork.
“Hi,” she said, waving the fork, “You guys don’t know me and there’s no reason you should except that I’m trying to talk with my friend over here and I can’t hear myself think over your hens just laid eggs cackling,” the metaphor was clearly lost on the girls in the booth.
“You don’t like it lady, you don’t have to sit there,” one said.
“You might have a point,” Abby said, “However I’m a bit confused as to why your sort who are so up on the waist lines and the looking good so much that you pop a fat burner pill every hour, are drinking gross quantities of a non-diet, high fat, high calorie beverage, are you planning to just barf it up later? Because seriously,” she pinched her stomach, “It’s going to pack on quick. This has been a public service announcement from the people in the next booth who really don’t want to ram the pitcher down your throat, but will if you don’t stop.”
She sat back down.
Hajime was stifling a laugh, “I love you, you know, but maybe we better move anyway?”

–Sanctity based writing exercise.

I have a fascination for Death and death imagery, and I was writing a website in 2002 that was going to involve things like that and I wrote this for the sidebar.

I have been quick.
I have been clean.
I have been creeping.
I have been keen.

Slip through the cracks,
Answer my scheme,
I can be wicked,
And I have been

This was written back in 1998-1999 when I was trying to make sense of certain past life memories, again one that I pared down. I was fond of beating a dead horse with extra lines of, frankly, crap, back in the day.

Why do I feel such a void in my soul?
Why am I pulled towards you?
Past connections should have ended there
What twist of bonds causes it to resurface
Many centuries later in the wrong body?

I’ve often wondered how people come up with surrealist work. We’re watching an anime at the house right now called “Paprika” which is set partially in a dream world. There are so many ways that this could just degenerate into something completely non-sensical.
Part of the movie involves the characters turning into alter-egos and dream selves, one of them becomes a robot, another is helping someone resolve dreams, they’re showing his memories on a big LCD mounted screen and he’s directing himself through them to process the emotions and feelings. It’s more than a little confusing, but also a very good movie because it talks of the merging of memories, dreams and reality. So, despite the parades of cymbal clashing frogs, kimono wearing dolls and horses and carts there are some parts which make quite a bit of sense.
It’s an interesting allegory. Then again I should expect nothing less from the same people who brought about “Paranoia Agent”.

Kore challenged me to use my “stripper” story for this one, so here we go at least 250 words on the science-fiction story I have on the go which involves a cybernetic serial killer, and the woman he did not manage to kill.

They’ve left me alone, to look at myself.
It’s taken a while for me to force myself to do just that. I don’t want to see. Yet this is what I wanted.
I can’t find seams…I’ve been staring for probably a half an hour. It’s seamless. Perfect. Vile. Violent.
I’m torn. I can feel the power, the hunger. I’m hungry.
I want to rip it all off again, take it back. But this is the way, the way to get rid of him, to have the power, and not be a victim, right? Seize the day and his throat; possibly.
If I can get past this distaste in my mouth, like copper.
Blood.

I can’t see the seams.
The skin is smooth, darker, but it was before. To make synth skin in my normal shade it would look too dead. You can’t pass yourself off as living wearing it, so they don’t make it. Don’t want you looking dead, now.
Just because you are.
I put my hand over my mouth stopping the laugh, almost rip my face. Here I used to spend all this time worrying about make-up, trying to find the best wrinkle cream and now look at me.
I can’t look at me any more.
Turn away from the mirror. Try not to lurch. More getting used to. It’s what I’m always doing, getting used to myself in new bodies. Three now. Maybe more?
Friday can finish his job, but at least I’ll put up some kind of fight, instead of just standing there and shaking.

I can but dream.
I don’t have anything else left.
Except hate.