Thursday, June 14, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Yeah! Kicking and roaring back into life, like a corpse galvanized by electricty, some primitive Frankenstein who's been stopped and frozen in a dark castle for years until some enterprising and slightly morbid young scientist broke in and sank iron needles hooked up to some mobile power source DEEP into his neck and then:
ZAPPO!
Back to life, twisting and dancing, face all spasmodic and falling down nex to the laptop so I can type out some words, some phrases, toss around a few metaphors and signal weakly to the world that here I am! Here I am! Look at me! Read my ramblings! Pause and wonder at what these few paragraphs may hint at, at what sort of wonderous and marvelously intriguing human being could just toss these off like VOILA!
I had a dream last night in which I ascended the side of a castle, a motel sort of castle with balconies and fire escapes and paused about three floors up to gaze down at the bay and watch a massive hammerhead shark slowly cruise past in the river below into the great waters beyond. It was at least as long as a school bus and it was all mottled grays and blues and looked serene and deadly and incredibly cool. I paused there, looking down at this vast behemoth, and thought: wow. Hot dog!
It was a crazy dream. It involved a motel style castle which was clearly haunted, clearly in that its occupants or interior designer had gone out of his way to make it seem so. All dark and atmospheric, tres cool. You walk around in it, and all the motel castle rooms are empty, abandoned, the doors either opening to cavernous nothings or simply locked. Except there were a few occupants there, and one lot were a trio of exceedingly attractive girls who had rigged up a trap behind one of the doors so that when you opened it you 'accidentally' knocked one of them over and caused her to drop a ton of something or other on the floor. It was all part of their plan to reel you in, a black widow net of misunderstandings that ended in your death.
I ended fleeing their trap by leaping over the balcony and falling five floors into the swimming pool below, which was cool because it wasn't a regular contained in a cement hole kind of pool but rather sort of the ocean flooding into the bowels of a ship kind of thing, because the motel continued down into the pool, flooded rooms and balconies and the like, so that one side was all interesting and filled with dark caverns and red railings and the like. The true owner of the castle motel was down there, you see, and I was going to face him down.
I don't recall many other details. It was very cool though. I remember feeling proud of myself, of my subconcious, for having concocted all the details. Thinking, man, why can't I put this stuff together when I'm at my laptop, all ready to write? Where's this much vaunted creativity THEN?
Sheesh. Ah well. Some wise sage said that passion is the first draft, and the craft lies in redrafting the first draft into a second draft which is then presented to the world as a more finished product more liable to communicate your message to the masses who will then be able to confer upon you the august and weighty title of WRITER. Cool, eh? This would then be the first draft, which, when redrafted, will make sense.
Wait till then with baited breath!
ZAPPO!
Back to life, twisting and dancing, face all spasmodic and falling down nex to the laptop so I can type out some words, some phrases, toss around a few metaphors and signal weakly to the world that here I am! Here I am! Look at me! Read my ramblings! Pause and wonder at what these few paragraphs may hint at, at what sort of wonderous and marvelously intriguing human being could just toss these off like VOILA!
I had a dream last night in which I ascended the side of a castle, a motel sort of castle with balconies and fire escapes and paused about three floors up to gaze down at the bay and watch a massive hammerhead shark slowly cruise past in the river below into the great waters beyond. It was at least as long as a school bus and it was all mottled grays and blues and looked serene and deadly and incredibly cool. I paused there, looking down at this vast behemoth, and thought: wow. Hot dog!
It was a crazy dream. It involved a motel style castle which was clearly haunted, clearly in that its occupants or interior designer had gone out of his way to make it seem so. All dark and atmospheric, tres cool. You walk around in it, and all the motel castle rooms are empty, abandoned, the doors either opening to cavernous nothings or simply locked. Except there were a few occupants there, and one lot were a trio of exceedingly attractive girls who had rigged up a trap behind one of the doors so that when you opened it you 'accidentally' knocked one of them over and caused her to drop a ton of something or other on the floor. It was all part of their plan to reel you in, a black widow net of misunderstandings that ended in your death.
I ended fleeing their trap by leaping over the balcony and falling five floors into the swimming pool below, which was cool because it wasn't a regular contained in a cement hole kind of pool but rather sort of the ocean flooding into the bowels of a ship kind of thing, because the motel continued down into the pool, flooded rooms and balconies and the like, so that one side was all interesting and filled with dark caverns and red railings and the like. The true owner of the castle motel was down there, you see, and I was going to face him down.
I don't recall many other details. It was very cool though. I remember feeling proud of myself, of my subconcious, for having concocted all the details. Thinking, man, why can't I put this stuff together when I'm at my laptop, all ready to write? Where's this much vaunted creativity THEN?
Sheesh. Ah well. Some wise sage said that passion is the first draft, and the craft lies in redrafting the first draft into a second draft which is then presented to the world as a more finished product more liable to communicate your message to the masses who will then be able to confer upon you the august and weighty title of WRITER. Cool, eh? This would then be the first draft, which, when redrafted, will make sense.
Wait till then with baited breath!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)