#birth happened. that’s all i can say about it reliably. i know nothing else. it wasn’t until almost ten minutes later that i realized that i wasn’t in a hospital. it was either the pain or the joy. i hope it was the joy. it was the pain. i was told once that nothing hurts more than a paper cut. if i could invite the person who shared that insight with me to give #birth to a four-pound #child surrounded by the comfort of a newly-vacated first-class lounger on a #transatlantic redeye, without the benefit of either doctor or medication, i would do so. i shall leave it at that, however. the remaining two hours of the #flight into frankfurt were as uneventful as one can imagine the first two hours of life would be, surrounded by a crowd of apathetic strangers in a flying cigar, pressurized to the point of crushing the bones in a newly-formed skull. simply put, it was loud. quiet in comparison but mindlessly vibrant in the moment.
so, in a #world before #smart, there was this #swan who gave birth and #completely didn’t #notice. in that same #world, there was a #duck, curiously enough, giving birth in the same lake at the same time. can you #imagine the noise that was to be heard that morning with the honking and quacking and the father birds trying desperately not to get seen edging away in search of television sets and motoring magazines? i assure you, there were feathers to be seen flying and water churned to near boiling #point. that being said, six ##ducklings and seven #signets entered the #world that day, almost as wet and sticky as the day they were conceived. this, of course, being a #world before #smart, is a #world without counting. we shall ignore those numbers in exactly the same manner as their mothers.
#pillows are the most misunderstood of creatures. they are warm and cuddly and love nothing more than to be held. some believe that they are #simply tools created for resting but it is not the case. they are missing the whole point, the evolution of the pillow from its ancestor, the common sheep. there was a child many thousands of years ago who was given a #lamb for her birthday, to care for, to love, to hold. she took that #lamb everywhere with her but at night, she was cold and the #lamb gave her warmth as they cuddled next to each other. as she grew, the #lamb curiously stayed small, never grew into a full-sized sheep. that was good for her. she no longer needed the sheep’s warmth but the straw that she rested her #head upon every night was rough and uncomfortable. when she became ill and took to bed for weeks, her #lamb, while she was delusional with fever, crept under her #head, pushed the straw aside, and lay down, giving her a #soft place to rest her #head. her father came to feed the #lamb but the #lamb barely moved and drank only a little water for the time that she was sick, until she recovered. it was this #lamb that was the beginning. as the #lamb had #lambs of her own, she taught them that it is in the service of sore and tired #heads that the would be, not to be eaten or stolen away for coats. over hundreds of generations, the #lamb gave up noise, movement, eating, sleeping, all signs of life but one – thought. in fact, the #lamb’s descendants became so good at thought that they could take the thoughts from the #heads resting upon them. as their humans slept quietly, they stole the thoughts before they could become nightmares and replaced them with images of pleasant meadows and fleeting clouds in the summer afternoon’s haze. in time the #pillows have become so talented at this that they no longer have to think to perform the task, #simply need to be squeezed, held, pressed upon by a tired #head. #pillows are such misunderstood creatures, taken out of there element to be used in #soft fighting, to press against lovers’ faces when they are to be teased, to cover a body in the light after passion is replaced by exhaustion. please do not misunderstand your pillow. treat her well and she will reward you with happy dreams. treat her as a #soft weapon of entertainment and your #head will be filled with the nightmares that she #simply could not be bothered to eat in place of the food she no longer needs. sweet dreams.
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digital rebirth of the artist.
self under glass.
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scratches of unconfessed.
I[i], as is distinctly outside the realm of my typical style, write this document distinctly as the first-person subject. This curious use of the perpendicular pronoun is a mirror, placed near, if not against, the topic. Autobiography is, perhaps, the most complex form of fiction writing. Objectivity[ii] is the writer’s autopilot, subjectivity[iii], his textual intercourse[iv] with a high-maintenance muse.
hearing through new eyes.
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image as humanity’s defining language.
i don’t know how to get started.
not surprising. in school, they tell you that it’s ok not to know how to write in elementary school. then you get to high school and they assume that you already know how it’s done. and you progress to university and they expect your innate ability to write creatively and critically to have developed. overnight. or at least over the summer between high school and university.