Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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The Phoenix rears it's strange, alien head and focuses upon me. Mute and on fire, dying of absence, it is asking me to tell a story so that when it rises, it may carry my words aloft. And I have no idea what to tell it.

"It's only your life," it tells me.

I've never been able to keep myself away from writing, any more than an alcoholic keeps away from free booze. It gives me focus, grants me magic, and reminds me sometimes that, even if my broken little head doesn't make any sense, at least sometimes it looks pretty on paper. On rare occasions, sometimes it even gives me the gift of perspective.

So, Livejournal it is. I'll write. If you're staggeringly bored, you'll read. Maybe if I sledge enough text into this window, I'll stop going in as many circles, and learn something for a change.

I hit the Post button. With a rush of fire, the bird makes itself a memory.

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The loveliness that is Ken

The new crime fighters emerge from the deepest coffee shop basements....
the first (i think) who needs to get their ass kicked is President Bitch--i mean Bush. You with me sidekick?

Re: The loveliness that is Ken

To paraphrase venerable sidekick Danny Glover: "I'm gettin' too old for that shit."

Plus there are plenty of superheroes already on the situation; click here to find info on some of them.

Waitaminute. "Sidekick?" I thought YOU were the sidekick?!? This isn't just another plot to get me into tights, is it?


Can I say I understand? Or is that cheating?

I have been contemplating the meaning of communication. Too often, I let the form of the communication get in the way of its message. --Why? Because I cannot commit to the sanctity of what I have to say, and I sell out to its form. The form is safer. In the form, I can create pictures of myself, who I am, and what I think that has nothing to do with who I am, or what I'm trying to say. In the form I am safe from me and my meaning; and I can hide.

In acting, we call hiding language lying. The actor is supposed to treate the language as the vehicle, and it's the meaning that does the driving.

So what does that mean for the rest of us souls, all stuck in the sounds of our words. How perfect the print, and how false my message. Always running away from being me.

End indulgent rant. Resume normal programming.

-Rohin MacKurn

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