What am I?

I am a female ape.

Of the species sapiens.

Of the genus homo.

I eat, I drink, I defecate, I mate. I produce eggs and discharge them every month.

And one more:

I love.

Plias Mourner

The lately leaden anchor upon my head brings me slowly,
slowly,
closer, closer,
to the heart of the earth;
I sink into its dirt mirth,
with a fantasy of mired hopes always diverting the tryst of it.

Down there,
the dear divulging of the reverie of maudlin birth, a paganesque existence, clamouring beyond the barred bones of ancestors and inspirators. Ecce homo - quid est ergo tempus?

I wonder: do the bells ring belated after the last of the species is dust?
I am a woman, a grungling, bumbling, mumbling thing - I seek my mark no longer.
Here, the lovers carved on a tree,
here,
the boy buried a box with his cloves and dove feathers.
Predicted, they, no aerie silence as such will follow - did they lie in wait for my heart?
Yes, I'll apprehend their loresong, but my dear heart rends, it does, for the meagreness with which i'll offer their hallowed store a telling tale, to speak back to the spoken, ennui of my memory...

I lay in the dirt, patting upon two oval stones placed each equidistance apart, fitted under my hands and they sing forth a thick patta-patta-pat-pat-patta-patta-patta-pat-pat.

Achew a chew a new chew in this rough. Had I been a bird my life would be rife with this stuff. Swallow the slimey composter and take to the air - there's my flighty metaphor and I'll move it upon the wind - away!

No, that is not my fate.

I am not only belated, but late.
I wish to mince and pinch my skin, this rovermery chose de beau. A quandary ancient woman I'd much prefer be! Where the heights of authority lay in the fine command of a village, a knowledge of the seasons, in being a clever seamstress and weaponsmith. Here, to render a fire, commence this making - a young doe, noble jeune, too young - we must make balance with the earth - I keep the largest fire in my hearth, sing a solemn myth of the beginning and end and our promise for the present to keep.

I spoke to my heart to rise and there, before me, the afternoon sun strew its haze orange light across the yawning plain. Brulé, my back, dark and muddy my limbs. The key elements of a supplication lay upon my lips, but with the image alone -- nothing was rendered to the light. A strong, stuttered breath and I moved my body across the land. Grave, willowy waif.

Fitless Flights

X) Short aphorisms do no more than describe readily evident truths, and one simply agrees or disagrees with them. Real philosophy and fiction requires true thought.

J) Characters in fiction should be likable, but not too likable.

U) One cannot feel guilty when writing for a select few individuals. Someone who says otherwise does not realize that each mind is not soothed by the same therapy, though each body of ours may be (but even this is questionable).

RE) I will be glad if I have left this world without harming anyone. Death and temporality are distressing things, and no one faces them in triumph - there is only resignation, peace, or forgetfulness. I don't know what I would do if I knew certainly that the human race would become extinct. I would try to forget - that is all I could do.

D) The fallacy-laced hate speech of Randians has thus far only served to undermine their monochromed stance of moral impurity that catches itself in a tepid cycle of puerile self-aggrandization whose only marked victories consist in the continual ear-boxing of archaic straw-mans, and what's more, they are straw-mans that don't even even have the dignity to appeal to those well-steeped within the western tradition of philosophy and literature, but rather they stand outside the tradition and cause the ear-boxers to appear paradoxically prehistorical (and ultimately, primitive) in their claims. The intelligence to identify these paradoxes in a justificatory manner does nothing to reduce their barbarism (see Rand's preface to "The Virtue of Selfishness").

Two Gods

Those who believe that god exists must do so, because life would be unbearable otherwise.

Those who assert that god exists only do so becuase they live in an idyll, and do not know what it is to lead an unbearable life (they do not know what it is to suffer arbitrarily).

~

Phantasy of the negative.