So I've got 6 days off for the Eid holiday and I've already burned through 5 of them. Seriously, where does the time go? I've got a stack of grading to do, but for some reason I just can't be bothered. That's the way it goes, I guess.
But it's not like I haven't been productive. I've written about 100 pages in the last week, finishing a novel that I hope to get in production soon. I'll keep the details to myself for now, but I will say it's a my first fantasy novel, taking place in a completely constructed world. It's being read by some trusted friends and, once the editing is done, we'll see what can be done with it.
Other than that, not much to report. Went into the mountains a few nights ago with a friend for a birthday/housewarming party, enjoyed a huge amount of awesome Lebanese cuisine with some very friendly people, and have been relaxing as much as I can. I've also been listening to A LOT of folk metal. Like, a lot. Check out Finntroll and Korpiklaani if you haven't already. You'll be glad you did.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Dreams
1993:
I sleep and I dream. I am eighteen years old. Without any understanding of how or why I am there, I am on a white marble balcony, lying at an angle across a shallow dais beneath a huge movie screen. Upon it plays a series of black and white images, casting everything in shifting shadows and gray and silver light. Beyond the balcony are a number of metal rods spanning the width of the huge room, level with the floor under the dais. Each rod is about five feet from the other. Seated on the rods are a number of people, who would be spectators to the film playing on the screen if not for the disturbing fact that they are each sitting with their backs to both it and me. They balance precariously on the rods, holding themselves in place, but it is not enough and some of them periodically lose their grip and plummet screaming into the abyss beneath them. There is no floor below, just empty blackness.
I am numb to all of this, aware but insensate as the screen above me flickers. While I lay there on the cold stone steps a woman approaches me, materializing like a cloud of smoke in the preternatural haze. She is naked, her pale body almost glowing in the light. Small and slender, her hips are curved and her breasts round, her hair short and dark. A pallid, spectral pixie that moves in an alien, inhuman manner. With small, curious footsteps she scurries towards me, her face blank in the shadows. She puts her hands on my shoulders and tries to clench her body close to mine, but I push her away, terrified to the very core of this woman’s touch. She is a harbinger, I realize, my flesh aware of the destruction that she brings with her. She kisses me, her lips cold as ice, and I try to cry out but my throat is frozen still. As the flatworm runs from the light, every cell in my body retreats from her, but my strength flags and eventually I give in to her embrace, the bizarre menagerie fading into a swirling mass of chaos as I feel her envelope me and pull me into oblivion.
Still locked in the dream, I awaken on the lawn outside of my house. It is morning and the sun is poking up over the horizon, bathing the world in blue-white. The grass is covered in white sand, and alongside me is the pale woman, lying on her stomach and facing away from me as I look around, uncertain. I feel sick and confused. I smell the sweet, nauseating stench of decay. Looking down, I see a writhing mass in her armpit. Looking closer, I can see a group of slugs collected there, suckling at her flesh, more in the manner of leeches. At the center of this group is one huge pinkish slug, pulsing with blood-red veins spread across its surface. Horrified, I turn the woman’s lithe body over onto her back and look at her face, as yet unknown to me. She is beautiful, young, with smooth cheeks and full, wet lips. Her eyes, however, are sunken pits of black, empty and desiccated holes devoid of life or human emotion. The scene loses focus at that point, carrying me on a wave of broken fantasy into the waking world. The images that have unfolded remain imprinted upon my brain, a confusing and unnerving series of events that will haunt me for several months.
2008:
I sleep and I dream. I am thirty-three years old. Sick with rage and disappointment I stand on the lawn outside the house that my family moved out of when I was nineteen. Behind me stands the pale woman, her naked body close to mine as she puts her hands on my shoulders. Without hesitation I turn and take her in my arms, welcoming the touch that I abhorred so many years ago. Her empty sockets stare at me and I push my lips to hers, my fingertips pressed into her waxy flesh. Beneath us our feet sink into the white sand, and as I give in to her desires I try desperately to remember what there is to return to in the meat and bone world. I smell the miasma of rotting flesh and I ignore it, unable to concentrate on anything else that would throw it into focus as being something other than normal.
The woman pulls her mouth from mine and whispers something in my ear. I do not know what it is. I cannot hear her words, only the musical hiss of her voice and the mocking sound of her laughter after she is finished. She smiles and bites into my earlobe, her teeth ripping through my skin. The sharp pain of the attack catapults me out of my sleep, hurling me shaking and cold into the world.
I sleep and I dream. I am eighteen years old. Without any understanding of how or why I am there, I am on a white marble balcony, lying at an angle across a shallow dais beneath a huge movie screen. Upon it plays a series of black and white images, casting everything in shifting shadows and gray and silver light. Beyond the balcony are a number of metal rods spanning the width of the huge room, level with the floor under the dais. Each rod is about five feet from the other. Seated on the rods are a number of people, who would be spectators to the film playing on the screen if not for the disturbing fact that they are each sitting with their backs to both it and me. They balance precariously on the rods, holding themselves in place, but it is not enough and some of them periodically lose their grip and plummet screaming into the abyss beneath them. There is no floor below, just empty blackness.
I am numb to all of this, aware but insensate as the screen above me flickers. While I lay there on the cold stone steps a woman approaches me, materializing like a cloud of smoke in the preternatural haze. She is naked, her pale body almost glowing in the light. Small and slender, her hips are curved and her breasts round, her hair short and dark. A pallid, spectral pixie that moves in an alien, inhuman manner. With small, curious footsteps she scurries towards me, her face blank in the shadows. She puts her hands on my shoulders and tries to clench her body close to mine, but I push her away, terrified to the very core of this woman’s touch. She is a harbinger, I realize, my flesh aware of the destruction that she brings with her. She kisses me, her lips cold as ice, and I try to cry out but my throat is frozen still. As the flatworm runs from the light, every cell in my body retreats from her, but my strength flags and eventually I give in to her embrace, the bizarre menagerie fading into a swirling mass of chaos as I feel her envelope me and pull me into oblivion.
Still locked in the dream, I awaken on the lawn outside of my house. It is morning and the sun is poking up over the horizon, bathing the world in blue-white. The grass is covered in white sand, and alongside me is the pale woman, lying on her stomach and facing away from me as I look around, uncertain. I feel sick and confused. I smell the sweet, nauseating stench of decay. Looking down, I see a writhing mass in her armpit. Looking closer, I can see a group of slugs collected there, suckling at her flesh, more in the manner of leeches. At the center of this group is one huge pinkish slug, pulsing with blood-red veins spread across its surface. Horrified, I turn the woman’s lithe body over onto her back and look at her face, as yet unknown to me. She is beautiful, young, with smooth cheeks and full, wet lips. Her eyes, however, are sunken pits of black, empty and desiccated holes devoid of life or human emotion. The scene loses focus at that point, carrying me on a wave of broken fantasy into the waking world. The images that have unfolded remain imprinted upon my brain, a confusing and unnerving series of events that will haunt me for several months.
2008:
I sleep and I dream. I am thirty-three years old. Sick with rage and disappointment I stand on the lawn outside the house that my family moved out of when I was nineteen. Behind me stands the pale woman, her naked body close to mine as she puts her hands on my shoulders. Without hesitation I turn and take her in my arms, welcoming the touch that I abhorred so many years ago. Her empty sockets stare at me and I push my lips to hers, my fingertips pressed into her waxy flesh. Beneath us our feet sink into the white sand, and as I give in to her desires I try desperately to remember what there is to return to in the meat and bone world. I smell the miasma of rotting flesh and I ignore it, unable to concentrate on anything else that would throw it into focus as being something other than normal.
The woman pulls her mouth from mine and whispers something in my ear. I do not know what it is. I cannot hear her words, only the musical hiss of her voice and the mocking sound of her laughter after she is finished. She smiles and bites into my earlobe, her teeth ripping through my skin. The sharp pain of the attack catapults me out of my sleep, hurling me shaking and cold into the world.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Opinions
“Opinion” is a word that gets thrown around way too often,
lately. As with many other things, there’s
a broad sense of entitlement that comes with opinions; everyone has a right to
theirs, therefore they should be allowed to express them at will, regardless of
any consideration for anyone who might around.
“It’s just my opinion” has become the default defense when confronted by
someone who takes exception, as if it can shield one from any sort of question.
It’s not that easy.
Opinions are different from facts.
“The door is made of wood” is a fact—either the door is or isn’t made of
wood, so that statement is either a fact or an error. If the door is made of plastic or metal, then
“the door is made of wood” isn’t a fact or an opinion, it’s just plain
wrong. If it is made of wood, then the
statement is a fact. There it is, there’s
nothing else to discuss on the matter, unless you want to get into the kind of
wood and other deeper considerations, but the basic fact is the door IS made of
wood, and there’s an end on it.
Opinions are subjective constructs. They are based on a person’s perceptions and
predispositions, which are shaped largely by their previous experiences. Everything they’ve ever lived through has
worked in some way to affect their opinions and, like all subjective
considerations, there’s a lot that goes into making an opinion. Therefore, opinions can be explored in ways
that facts can’t. Opinions give insight
into the thought processes and psychology of the person giving them, whether
they want them to or not. Much of what
goes into an opinion is unconscious, of course, but there should also be some
conscious thought devoted to them.
That’s the key right there:
conscious thought. If you haven’t
bothered to think about your opinions, why should anyone else? If you have thought about them, you should be
prepared to defend them when someone asks you to. You opened the door by giving it in the first
place, so don’t go running behind the “it’s just my opinion” excuse. Your opinions are not sacred writ, immune to
the ravages of time or the world—they can change. They’re subjective. As you grow, they can shift and transform
right along with you. The opinions I had
when I was 15 are not the same opinions I have at 38 (at least, not all of
them). Opinions are ideas and the best
way to develop an idea is to discuss it with others, to take other ideas and
help break down and re-forge it until it becomes something stronger and
better. We’ve all got something to
learn.
Of course, there’s another consideration here. Since everyone’s got them, no one person’s
opinions are any more valid than anyone else’s.
Yes, you have the right to your opinion.
You even have the right to express it.
Keep in mind, however, that everyone else in the world has those same
rights. Also, we all have the right to
completely ignore everyone else’s opinions.
So think about that the next time you want to spout off about
something. Maybe no one wants to hear
your opinion. If they do, you’d better
be prepared to talk about it once someone calls you on what you’ve said.
If you’re not ready for that, maybe it’s better to keep your
mouth shut, at least until you learn to engage your brain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)