> stories of yore
with 5minutes to 6am on a possibly dreary wednesday (RT-day *PUI*) = either im too muthafcukingtired from alla the mindmuckabout (rant prior) or tis a true state of seeming calmness as i finished reading this exceptional Warren Ellis' entry: Stories, Drinking and The World ... somehow it gets to me, not least his drunkenbritdemeanour, but for the vile hushed truth that it encapsulates ... but that's just me.
a mild hint of desperation overcomes me (and no, tis not the gastrics talking *urgh*) and suddenly i find myself in grudging re-acceptance of my disposition. with me and my world. tho not exactly a validation nor vindication of my constant ranting and foul demeanour, i find myself with a need to ... purge ... as for what to purge, we shall see; tho one might say all i have been doing, is purging. i deny it not. nor do i accept it in itz entirety. for i believe (or i'd like to) there is more than just this ...
i've always quoted another fav comics-writer of mine, by the name of Frank Miller = whereby when he was interviewed once yonks ago by a reporter; asking him "what was it that inspires him to write the stuff he writes?" - his answer was a short and simple: "i write from life". (or something like that :p) and that had struck a cord deep within me then and has stuck with me throughout my teenage years til right this moment. as for what he truly meant, im not gonna delve too deep into it, for its just an apparent simple truth from which foundations of any or all stories (good or bad) are based on. IMHO.
... even if by Ellis' depiction of brainfcukedinspiredwritings. heh. power to whomever who writes, i say. whatever he/she wants to. a definition of GOOD and BAD writing differs greatly to some, tho tis but the gentle masses that some writers pan to, for both survival and mayhaps even the evolution of their craft? but what craft may be from thy mind, put to words, to be shared with the next person and the next, and the next? be it in print or on the cyberhighway, words are words. but if they tell a story, no matter how fantastical or however mundane, tis still a story. and perhaps to me, that is commendable. that is enough. and if the reader can actually feel for the stories and words, than mayhaps there is salvation after all, for everyone? but first salvation for thyself, as i fully agree with Ellis' statement - you write for yourself (be it "first" or "only for").
... i just re-read the para above i had just typed and realized i have no idea what was it that i was trying to say. do you? ... does it matter? itz just my constant rambling and perhaps a purge that i needed? at this juncture, itz 630am and my mind ain't functioning at optimum power anyways, so i'll just leave it be (for now). heh :)
and mayhaps, before i retire (or try to) to my slumber, i'd "purge" one more time (not without a sense of trepidation, of coz - aaahhh = FCUKEEET!) and share with you something that i had thought of doing as of late, but stopped becoz i felt twas crap i had produced. (and of coz my warpedpisspoor "command" of the language alienates me to most, i reckon) maybe it truly is. but it's my story and i'd be hard-pressed to say it doesn't matter to me. maybe to you it doesn't mean shitte other than a grimace+chuckle. but it does mean something to me ... but mayhaps i'd haveta find a better "voice"? ... anyways ...
Working Title: My Nine Lives (Copyright - Andy Heng 2005)
"I have lived. And died. Nine times. Wedged inbetween my adult life, I had loved nine women. And now I am alone. Again. Oblivious to the oft said: "With Age Comes Experience"; I pour myself into relationships that inevitably do not last. I have stopped asking myself; "Why?". Because they matter not anymore. Self-reflection; most times, might be under the guise of "Self-Pity". And the wallowing is so exquisite, I do not want to hanker for it anymore than i have. Not that I had before. Though I know not for fact. But I have stopped asking questions for which I know I will never have the answers to. Because some secrets are not meant to be spoken of. And I have aplenty of secrets in my rusted-chest of memories. But they might never be spoken of. Ever. "Might". And such is the intricate quagmire we mere mortals indulge ourselves in."
not much different from the shitte i forcibly dole out in me blogs, innit? i personnally feel a good start to a story, is a GOOD START. and im sure as heck am far from it, i know. but i shall persevere, and maybe one day i'll have a story worth telling. and mayhaps, someone might want to read it.
10minutes to 7am and the sky brightens up, forcing my eyes to close ... and here's hoping they DO. good day everyone.
a mild hint of desperation overcomes me (and no, tis not the gastrics talking *urgh*) and suddenly i find myself in grudging re-acceptance of my disposition. with me and my world. tho not exactly a validation nor vindication of my constant ranting and foul demeanour, i find myself with a need to ... purge ... as for what to purge, we shall see; tho one might say all i have been doing, is purging. i deny it not. nor do i accept it in itz entirety. for i believe (or i'd like to) there is more than just this ...
i've always quoted another fav comics-writer of mine, by the name of Frank Miller = whereby when he was interviewed once yonks ago by a reporter; asking him "what was it that inspires him to write the stuff he writes?" - his answer was a short and simple: "i write from life". (or something like that :p) and that had struck a cord deep within me then and has stuck with me throughout my teenage years til right this moment. as for what he truly meant, im not gonna delve too deep into it, for its just an apparent simple truth from which foundations of any or all stories (good or bad) are based on. IMHO.
... even if by Ellis' depiction of brainfcukedinspiredwritings. heh. power to whomever who writes, i say. whatever he/she wants to. a definition of GOOD and BAD writing differs greatly to some, tho tis but the gentle masses that some writers pan to, for both survival and mayhaps even the evolution of their craft? but what craft may be from thy mind, put to words, to be shared with the next person and the next, and the next? be it in print or on the cyberhighway, words are words. but if they tell a story, no matter how fantastical or however mundane, tis still a story. and perhaps to me, that is commendable. that is enough. and if the reader can actually feel for the stories and words, than mayhaps there is salvation after all, for everyone? but first salvation for thyself, as i fully agree with Ellis' statement - you write for yourself (be it "first" or "only for").
... i just re-read the para above i had just typed and realized i have no idea what was it that i was trying to say. do you? ... does it matter? itz just my constant rambling and perhaps a purge that i needed? at this juncture, itz 630am and my mind ain't functioning at optimum power anyways, so i'll just leave it be (for now). heh :)
and mayhaps, before i retire (or try to) to my slumber, i'd "purge" one more time (not without a sense of trepidation, of coz - aaahhh = FCUKEEET!) and share with you something that i had thought of doing as of late, but stopped becoz i felt twas crap i had produced. (and of coz my warpedpisspoor "command" of the language alienates me to most, i reckon) maybe it truly is. but it's my story and i'd be hard-pressed to say it doesn't matter to me. maybe to you it doesn't mean shitte other than a grimace+chuckle. but it does mean something to me ... but mayhaps i'd haveta find a better "voice"? ... anyways ...
Working Title: My Nine Lives (Copyright - Andy Heng 2005)
"I have lived. And died. Nine times. Wedged inbetween my adult life, I had loved nine women. And now I am alone. Again. Oblivious to the oft said: "With Age Comes Experience"; I pour myself into relationships that inevitably do not last. I have stopped asking myself; "Why?". Because they matter not anymore. Self-reflection; most times, might be under the guise of "Self-Pity". And the wallowing is so exquisite, I do not want to hanker for it anymore than i have. Not that I had before. Though I know not for fact. But I have stopped asking questions for which I know I will never have the answers to. Because some secrets are not meant to be spoken of. And I have aplenty of secrets in my rusted-chest of memories. But they might never be spoken of. Ever. "Might". And such is the intricate quagmire we mere mortals indulge ourselves in."
not much different from the shitte i forcibly dole out in me blogs, innit? i personnally feel a good start to a story, is a GOOD START. and im sure as heck am far from it, i know. but i shall persevere, and maybe one day i'll have a story worth telling. and mayhaps, someone might want to read it.
10minutes to 7am and the sky brightens up, forcing my eyes to close ... and here's hoping they DO. good day everyone.
