I am attempting… to re-construct several of my stories into the world they were meant to be. The process has been a longtime coming, and I am not sure if/when the completed project will be finished, but I have started on the basic skeleton. If I can find enough threads in the stories so far I may add to it, but I will also need to do some rethinking and rewriting. All just takes time. Twine is a new program that is used to create hypertext stories, although I believe the more important value may be in constructing hypertext novels. Most hypertext stories are very short, taking the reader through short moments and highly programmed. The hypertext novel is just[…]
In constructing this story, I am following a particular set of exercises. The following list describes the exercises. Hopefully by the end of this project, all of these exercises will be complete. 1. Character sketches —–What-if questions —–Casting charts 2. Chronology of key dates —–Back stories —–Wants lists 3. Character dreams —–Symbols list 4. Character attire and habits —–Dressing room —–Ritual activities —–Alternative viewpoints 5. Storyboarding —–Content scene notes —–Direction scene notes 6. Staging —–Props —–Setting scene —–Moving scene 7. Conversations —–Recording conversations —–Dialogue scene 8. Action —–Action scenes —–Action word lists —–Rewrite scenes with stronger words —–Rewrite scenes with (1)characters, (2)dialogue, (3)stage setup —–Large action list 9. Perspective —–Tri-perspective scene —–Exploring distance —–Rewrite scene with stage setup —–Rewrite scene[…]
The following is a tentative timeline for my novel, “The Bridge of Rain.” General Plagues LADON RUBY WAND OTHER ^500 Falling of the Twin Stars ^500-^301 Great Darkness ^426: the Cliff-Mother is born to Haven and Azure ^300-^181 The Age of Heroes ^201: Firedancer is ensnared to the Cliff-Mother; ^180-^31 ^180: the Cloaked Man is born; ^30-^1 ^30: Judge is born 0 Crowning of Legend Legend is crowned by the Kingmaker 1-25 The Age of Legends 25: Abe is born to Firedancer and the Cliff-Mother; 26-114 114: The Water Woman is born; 115-118 118: Huntring is born to the Monkey King 119-130 130: Jeremiah is born to Legend and the Orient Queen as a bastard; 131-132 131: the Water Woman[…]
Character notes: these posts are pre-released information on a novel I am writing. WAND Half-brother to Ladon through his mother Aura, Wand’s father is supposedly the Starry Man, when he first fell to the Earth hundreds of years ago and caused the sundering of the Ether and empowered the first Gods (including his mother). Considered a mistake, he served his step-father Jeremiah and conspired to overthrow him and claim the kingdom for himself with the help of a famous warrior and hero (Huntring), a comrade in arms he had served together in the Ether as adventurers and the founding of the Dolls, a society Wand created to maintain order among the Three Cities. However, during Wand’s experiments he found he[…]
Character notes: these posts are pre-released information on a novel I am writing. RUBY A woman of extraordinary beauty and enchantment, even to her own downfall. Bountiful red hair, pale ivory skin (as opposed to her dark sister Mary). With her sister Mary, she is one of the only people to live with the unique talent to take the ether of another and change it briefly to whatever she desires. While her sister has chosen a far more useful usage of her skill as a Sister (a branch of powerful women who utilize their gifts to shape events), Ruby adopted a more carefree lifestyle, desiring money, power, and the love of others, until she found herself in the care of[…]
Character notes: these posts are pre-released information on a novel I am writing. LADON Well-built. Strong. Iron jaw. Curling, wavy hair. Stone eyes. Calm under pressure. Calculating mind. Stands on the prow of the ship, his hand gripping the rail, staring straight ahead. At home relaxed, pressure down, collapsing into a chair. Tired but disciplined. Striving to rebuild the fallen remains, from the mess of a chaotic family, loose wife, wild and uncontrollable daughter, and a family that has more problems in it than his own kingdom. Charismatically strong, yet humble with a streak of ferocity and ruthlessness. However, not energetically charismatic or excitable. Hard-nosed, to the point of self-destruction; but open to the opinions of those he trusts. Tall,[…]
This month has been one of learning: I’ve gone through both Durant’s “Our Orientatal Heritage” and “The Life of Greece” and I’ve learned more than I can possibly remember, and I’ve forgotten more than I know I could ever learn. Nevertheless, it’s creating a map in my mind of one way of looking at the world (surely not the only way), and regardless, Durant oozes with style making the listen incredibly pleasant. As I move from “The Life of Greece” to “Caesar and Christ” I feel the necessity to quote the last few paragraphs of “The Life of Greece” if for nothing else their verbal pantomimic generosity. As a writer Durant is a master at the peroratio, fully bringing his thoughts[…]
Trying on a gown, she decides against the blue, falls asleep once more. Dreaming of songbirds and two little white girls, balancing two cups. One: riverwater, Two: memories of sunlight; symphonies of hope. Western winds blow west, but before they can conjoin, Eastern winds blow east.
Voices from the distance, an insect chorus mends the air and I sit here in silence, loving the world as it slips past. The sound of my own voice startles me, and among my collapsing thoughts, the wind is little comfort, singing in my ears, bringing the twinkle of birds in his breath. Ants crawl among the wall; this is their land, their life, they will know nothing else – I, on the other hand, am a fool, tomorrow to leave this place a memory, to rest among the pylons of my past; there is darkness here, left by me, I see it in the distance, shouldering itself against the corn fields, hidden beneath the branches of pyramid trees, and[…]
I tell myself I have no say, my mother tells me not to say, and so silent I am, supposed in time, frozen, living my life one day at a time, Waiting for that beautiful moment when you are there, your figure in the mist, me in the mist, us surrounded by dew, but I am told No Wait Now isn’t the time and I scream – harmonics be damned, the melody and chords and rhythm of this song can go to hell, because the faintest hope that you are there with me can give me good mornings for a week, can bring sunshine on my darkest days, but I am told The Time Is Not Right. I write these[…]
(I speak not elegies, nor mind the right and wrong) Oh deist, mine own, eternally in the sky. They say your son is a devil, shining in the moonlight, his grimace a shimmer and his laughter gone. (The elegy crows through me, riveted to the now) The edge of the mirror, pock-marked, studded with rust, it hinges on the wall. My visage is a blur, who is this face in the pale? His eyes are uncolored. (Falling behind, moving away, the elegy is on the run) Oh heavens, you leave me pondering on the seers and prophets who glance in the sea, only to see the waves, only to see the waves. The curls are their prison, as the foam[…]
Poetry has fled for a moment, replaced by the grinding of gears and a shiny new cover. It has returned, though, much to my surprise. It is perhaps more common, more heady, touched with the necessitudes of a life not yet lived. To dream is divine, yet to live is somewhat benign, unless one walks bravely to the cliff and faces the wind with the water on their face. I’ve seen the avenues that proudly stand, their trees and broad trunks of my own pastime, yet I hold the future is unwritten, to be taken by my whim, my hopes, and my fancy.
men with gloves cook lamb by moonlight you are with me, beside me, around charcoal smoke fills the tent dusty and burnt sticks are crushed into the ground the dull sound of the street from outside the cold envelopes us you are with me, beside me, around tv light from apartments flicker inside windows a police car, flashing colors, is parked ahead dark shadows of bicycles are an illusion behind I fall asleep to the sound of conversation you are with me, beside me, around a scarf wrapped about my neck the warm inside air conflicts with the chill the stairs sound hollow against our shoes empty streetlights blink yellow you are with me, beside me, around headlights loom in[…]
the old men in the park remind me of children they play their games and laugh and drink the old days fade into dusty yellow books they smile at me, their teeth askew the old memories, they never go away I am a year older the morning brings cats, hiding in the bushes they meow and hiss and slink away grandmas walk little white dogs boys and girls kick balls between cars my brakes squeal, the front tires rattle I am a year older the river is frozen solid under the bridge the water has broken men fish on ice, poles in water-holes they are like modern eskimos, without the hoods cars pound smoke into the street I am a[…]
Beside the cold creek, the wind blows, pulling my face northward, towards clouds.
In midst of a crowd, he wheels past, fast, blazing like a blur.
I. Steam; boiling mist spills over rusty, black bikes; bushes, withered, dry. II. Moving arms; palms wave; red brick apartments surround; twilight exercise. III. Spaceship trains, guns raised, children at the helm, silent, winter on their face. IV. Monkey temples rot, thrashed by time’s terrible war, while old men play chess. V. Windows reflect sun, burning my eyes, while winter synchronizes me.
今天是秋天， 很 冷； 千落叶； 我睡在花的床里。 Jīn tiān shì qiū tiān, hěn lěng; qiān luò yè; wǒ shuì zài huā de chuǎng li. Today is autumn, very cold; many leaves are falling; I go to sleep on a bed of flowers.
Blue sky, a roof edge, alien tongues glibbing good mornings, chilled, through glass.
Those golden lights grace our harbors of memory, imbued in blue. Night lampposts diffuse ephemeral threads, hushed in chiaroscuro. Waiting by the road, listlessly taken by the nevermore of stars. * My peace comes in breaths, stolen from the cold, ripe air; dreams dream of dreamers. My own, slashed, gutted, fed to monsters of the deep; to the future, sung.
Wind blows on framed trees, outside, birds flock on rooftops, black shades upon white.
It’s a different way of thinking. Picture this: A man, his face torn and bloody, sits on the bottom of a dark and dusty shaft. He believes himself forgotten, displaced, so when he cries out (which he does) his voice is silent. He is like this for many years. And then a hand is placed on his shoulder, and helpless, destitute, he knows he can see, and the shaft is filled with light. He looks into the eyes of his savior, and he is amazed. He is common, ordinary, but he carries a warmth, an invisible light. And as the old man opens himself, the warmth fills him. [Romans 1:7]
They sit on their temples, songs passing over heads, swimming with the clouds, vanishing among the stars, faded moon, and the sun-filled heavens. They watch the multitudes, in their bright and wild colors, pass. They remark to one another: How strange they are! How remarkable. When midnight comes, and the darkness envelopes even the light from their eyes, they shudder and cry out. In the morning, some of them are different, as if they caught the light of the rising sun. They stand and process. [Romans 1:6]
The river, quiet. Clouds sparkle, shadowed by thick mountains. A lone tree, shivering. The breeze is slight, traveling on a breath. The man sits on the grass. He has green eyes, like the forest’s bloom. He lies on his back, asleep. Peace fills his face. Birds speak in the leaves. The grass, the dew, the dawn sky. The sun floods the heavens, it becomes like reeds through the clouds. God is here, on the earth. His feet, as if a rumbling storm, his heavy-laden voice, as if the high wind. The man stirs in his sleep. The water of the stream bristles. We are the men by the sea. We sleep in dreams forged by the heavens. We hold the[…]
What is in a name? By what glory do you stand before me, and shout your radiance? What right have you? I am among the dead men; they breathe and die, are reborn a second time, and quest for the eternity of the horizon. They smile plastic smiles, pure smiles, lustful smiles, mad smiles, all the while counting their toes and dancing on thin air. They suck up the blood of flesh, and dry their teeth on beggars� rags. They know nothing, yet everything. They chisel their name on temples, and compose ballads to the sun. The magnificance of the light beyond the sea; we strive everyday, sacrificing our children, like lambs upon the altar of dolls; we forget the[…]
Above the azure haze, where the crown meets a maze of light, little children sleep on beds of oak, leaves browned by the summer sun fly between shafts of light, raining upon shattered dreams and sworn hopes, and the little girl lying on the grass with her heart in her teeth and a blaze across her cheeks, her eyes like the sun unclouded and her laughter tolling across the green, that glorious voice bounding across the heavens, glittered with tyranny and majesty, this little girl falls peacefully to sleep. She is unaware, blissfully so, of sacrifice. She dreams of golden stars and polished temples, she fights off demons in her sleep. The din and echo of mortality has faded from[…]
Did you forget, my son? Did you forget when I held the sky for you, and stopped the storms? Did you forget when I blew the wind to make you cool, and grabbed a bit of the sun to warm you on a cold night? Did you forget? Do not forget, my son, of the birds in the trees whose song I made for you, of the rumble of the clouds to awe you, of the beauty of scales, so when light flashes across the surface of the water the ocean is alive with beautiful, moving stones. Do not forget, my son. Long ago, when I held the first light in my grip, when I carved the mountains from my[…]
Barren woods, the realms of lofty dreams all measured next to nothing when compared to the light of the future; the light that drifts from home to home, carried by a star, carried by a torch, carried by the glimmer of a man’s eye; he keeps this light in his pocket, in his purse, in the shelves of his wallet, waiting for a sign, waiting for the star that falls from heaven, all the while his hand is burning. While the slave, who sits among piles of garbage and ruminates on the shadows as stones of immaculate grace, the star burns on his forehead, the tempest blue, bright red, blazing into a night sky filled with the horrors of the[…]
we laugh and play by the rocks at the sea, we dance to the sound of the earth, it washes against us, and we feel the tug of time. somewhere on the beach, there is a song, it is soft like sand, but echoes among the cliffs, a fire roars into the night sky. from where I stand, I see the flickers of flame, they signal the stars and silence the watchers, they stand in some sort of holy observance. we are the masters of the night, we are the pinnacles of light, we fly as heralds of sight, we are the might of the night.
stars are among us. we are the dancing comets, the heralds of the future, constellations make our name, we are the children of the past, and the descendents of our grandchildren, we cry out to lost stones, raise our fists to the irony of the wailing road, and ponder the mystery of time’s last repose. We are the child of the present, lost in the haze of the city, our hands and feet touch the lights of windows, our mouths speak truths made of thorns, our hands build monsters of pearl. We are the future. We are here, the living, the wanted.
waveforms on a wave, flying through the air, curling beneath the sand, our legs drenched, filled to the brim with starstones, dying of crystals, we are the memory of time, slip-drunken and fled, silenced by the moment in which we fail to understand the intricacies of the inlaid moon, with her silver lines and mysterious shadows; seconds pass in storms, flush with red and violent and blue-green leaves, while the season comes to an end, and we find ourselves at the gate, where a pale-faced woman greets us, asks us our name, and hands us two iron bars.
Piddlesticks, fiddlesticks, cats on a popsicle, Swing low, swing high, swing sickleful, Words are a merry band of high browed zen, drunk on their own men, filled to the brink now and then, but on their own they are waveless as sorrowful crows, spilling onto a field in bombastic blows, fleeing into the silence of the rows.
left alone, left alone, beside the tunnels of the soul, we sing among the golden alleys and lift the thorns from heavenly melodies, but too late, too late, the time has come for mocking’s sweet sigh, cradling in high, the unborn waves upon the sand, the wind and tails of a forgotten land.
I. Locked in, transparently held by my own hand; wearisome, the toil of eyes placed over and around my throat. II. Vapid smiles, rancid rolling laughter: in the fog, corporate steeples pledge their souls to alien words. III. Lifted slightly, sunbeams crashing into the shore; sand grown on the back of kings; scepters lying in the river, alone.
when you go to sleep, sleeply dream, dream of berries bright, heavy with delight, dream of blessings, son, don’t ever play the sun, for earthly things are mortal, mortals be, away from darkly lit, the skies are hallowed see, mill the words of old, and seek the holy fawn, who sleeps in sleepless dreams, among the glades of men, yet within the barrows lost, lie mysteries unforgot, and heaven lies in wait, for he whom tomorrow takes.
Generations come and go, but we remain. We remain silent, the ones behind, the ones with the philosophy of wayward souls: but words like this mean nothing, they care not for weary tirades or serendipity and souless skies. It is like a dark blade of grass under a new morning, the sun shedding her light over the phosphoresence, the glisten of the dayfire shuddering across the tip of green.
Alive and well, it seems. I stamp in the ether, my feet making fog-holes, the clappity-clappity muck sound frogging the effervesence. Wherefore art the single-minded? Where has the poem gone? Into the netherworld, the solemn and dark land of delights, chocolate, and cream fingers.
Where are the juke-boxes? Where are the simpletons in the plastic hats, waving their arms and singing folk tunes while carrying backpacks of rocks and burning the land in their wake? I saw a lad not long ago, he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe. He drank a glass in one hand-right, and strung his soul with eyes of light, he filled the room with music fatly, while the world outside burned luminescently. He�s a bard yes, of that terrible time, one of the pack, they said, who roamed the land with string in hand and voice of silk, who could capture your soul with just one note, and wait until the world outside, became as ash of a dark,[…]
In a world of memorable skylights, of jumping rat-a-tats and chorusing larks, the invisible sits beside the stone, fingers mimicrying shadowmen, the honey oozing from the eyes, flooding the hall with light. We stand beside the invisible, contemplating the source of song. We stand behind desks, holding lightbulb pens, penciling out cursive recitals to our unknown gods and playing moss-laden flutes, while the world in memory shudders by, jumping in juxtaposed flashes of light, time as indefinable as an empty star.
We are the flight-birds, wheeling our cries over a stark and barren world. We have wings of steel and eyes of pale moonlight, and we hunt in the noon-time for chariots and herons, not having slept during the night for fear that our dreams would come and haunt us during the day. After we hunt, we sleep amongst a pile of stones, sapphire, basalt, concrete, and ruby, and we see the world as it always was, but could never be dreamt.
Morning calls on the zenith of our lives; stars wheel above; the Master watches us in repose, and we are slights to his gaze. Memory serves its purpose… hissing through the clouds, heady on the invisible wine, man speaks volumes of rubies, spilling into a bowl outside of time. Glowing, the fires of manna, they fall like dazed and awestruck children, spilt like stains over velvet carpets; the cajolers cajol in their romanticism, while I am alone in my mind. Time exists outside; the snap of a fishes jaw, the scent of a burnt rose; these are inside me; explosions. The crackle of fire against glass, the sound of a whistling kitchen, steam pouring out in raptured breath, and yet,[…]
Upon a night of midnight clear, the Runner fled among the golden tombs, he was a man of ancient and high renown, who by the fate of heaven was scattered below, and left in madness to hear a voice of fire: “Oh Man, who caused the sun to fall, who sleeps beneath the moon and dreams of pain, fear not, for I will raise you from the dead, and bring you back among the temple’s Knights, to Run among the sunless, godless men.” But he, the Runner, shrunk back in fear, for though it was his wish to dream again, he feared the light and warmth of summer’s skin, and so he ran, in dreams, in darkless light, to the[…]
What are you talking about? The sun has risen, The moon has fallen, Daylight has come on a star. Longing for one little spark, You sing in circles, You build your steeples, Yet nothing you do brings me hope. God, in his visage, will watch, You fling sand castles, You have no master, You follow your own ruling, raw. I tall-tale the message of love, It speaks of trials, You see me smile, And realize I am now you. The ending is far from now clear, You and I, we fly, To the moon, we cry, For now we have nothing to lose.
Can’t think. What is a poet without inspiration? I haven’t read any good poetry lately. It’s all a farce, anyhow. I’ve been watching movies all day, and now Richard Gere is on the screen, in a blue bathrobe; the side of his face is profiled, his hair is grey, and although he is trying to sound tired and dull, he can’t. He doesn’t look to be the kind of person who can write poetry, though. But a poet is not writ on the skin, but in the hand. It is not the sparring of the soul against the mutiny of the world, but rather, it is the humiliation of defeat before the awesome presence of a golden drum, forever beating[…]
line one: a flute on the wall line two: wrapped in strips of black cloth line three: the boy fights long-toothed dragons line four: he holds his sword blazing line five: the world stares down at a wooden floor line six: the panels reflect the names of cities line seven: clothes are draped over a suitcase line eight: a white-collared shirt and a receipt bag line nine: an elephant shoehorn hanging on the wall line ten: the plastic trunk has faded line eleven: a mirror tacked onto a poster line twelve: it reflects the closed blinds line thirteen: as the color streams through the room, line fourteen: the shadows are illuminated
Mesmerized by the inconsequence of a single act of unrequited brilliance the young boy steps forward and while settling his mind on a small stone placed in the palm of his hand, he remarks to himself how beautiful God has made this stone, how the edges are perfect, the color glorious like the end of a sky, the size is a bite-sized rendition of a romantic song; then taking the stone in two fingers he lifts it above and throws, the stone cascading through the sky like a fallen bird, steering through the mists until it lands in a lake, splashing in a torrential burst, the waves on the water flickering away from the impact, escaping the realm of the[…]
Woe upon those men of green, who sink beneath the land, they thrash and wail and scream and haunt, but nothing does ever come of their want. They are the men who live within, who live alone, unfeared, untouched, those men who we forget to see, yet live our lives and daily be. They dance upon a rolling green, with grass so strong it cannot bend, the clouds are made of wires, the sun is a terrible fire, the hawks that fly above sing songs like disharmonious doves, and the little green men who sink beneath the land, can only breath and shudder.
Corporeal, we will feel, the bite of life’s last drop. That time comes like a fallen top, rushing to meet our doomed doom zoom. Fantastically, we fling rascally, amazingly, we sight flirtateously, but below the belt of azure’s wrath, within the glare of knife’s bent gaze, we sweep the porch of sightly might, clear the ivory-covered kite, flow into the golden-hued air on wings of trespass; it is night, we are our generation’s last hope, to save the rest of them with only a rope; a rope? yes, a rope.
In water-caltrop raiment clad, with belt of floating-heart, you dwell in faerie wonderlands. Such lush jade-green, your perfumed hue – tho’ wind may cease, its fragrance yet expands. Egrets’ reflections grace the pond no more, only the autumn wind’s soughing, a soughing so glum. Alone, but for the rush flower, you bear the nocturne wake and await the heavy dew that with the morn with come. With greasy make-up swept away, true character takes form! Red garments loud, stripped off, display strength of a subtler norm! Live up to what Lianxi said: stand up “pure, straight and tall”. Follow not the withered leaves in chilly ponds to fall! -Lu Xun, 1900