You know I read this book, a very peculiar beautiful one, that was literally, all about the art of tea, but it started off with this whole section about what it would be like if teacups could speak.
What if any normal, everyday object could speak?
You know it's like trees: the really old ones. They can live for centuries, and maybe it's been programmed into our imagination to believe that there's something otherly about them, but I still like to think that while they may not be able to get up and walk, they are soulful.
I mean, without them we would die and without us and all the other mammals on earth (and other creatures that breathe out carbon dioxide), they would die.
Strange to have a connection like that with things around us. (Although, like I mentioned in a previous entry, we're all made of the same basic matter). So really we're all connected at a primal level.
Well I must say I feel rather stupid (though I really don't expect anyone I knew actually waited at Nerang to see if I would turn up in a fancy costume on Friday), but still...I said I'd do it and I ended up hiding at home. Heehee. I was...you know, worried about the potential mass murderers and book thieves running about Nerang these days. :]
You know, it's strange, sometimes I just find life so magnificent and beautiful that it's near impossible to bare. I mean that in a good way too. I also have the suspicion that I wouldn't enjoy it all so much if I didn't have my doom-ridden days where Sodom and all the rest are right by my ear...whispering their lies to me. However I still have fantastic days, and hey...I'm sure it's exactly the same for anyone else whose reading this. (If...people are :] )
Ah, but returning briefly to the subject of trees, and I know that anyone else who has read the Lord of the Rings books, you'll know which trees I'm talking about.
But it's in the section where the Hobbit's first meet Tom Bombadil, or rather when they're making their way through that dark, old forest. The trees there are so ancient and bitter about what happened in their past that it's made them alive, and vicious. Then there's the talking and walking trees in the books, I think they're called Ents.
A type of tree similar to the bitter trees from the story that I came up with some time ago, belonged on some of the islands in the Black Ocean I designed. (They're also in a new novel I'm working on), but these trees are pretty ancient too, and basically they trap victims in their roots and keep them alive as energy-providers for the trees. However while the victim is caught, the trees' mind causes the victim's mind to go to this other world. Mostly the victim ends up forgetting that their even trapped as a living meal for the tree. There's a lot more to it, but that's the basic idea I had.
I've also got the feeling, that it's not always through lack of want or inspiration that we don't write or choose not to write. I think it can even be a question of influence.
I remember when I first started trying to write novel-sized books, (and I don't mean any bitterness or regret here), but I let some members of my family read it (won't say who :] ), and they told me that a lot of what I write was too violent, or didn't seem very Christian.
Because of that, I didn't finish a lot of books, but, I can't help it at times! When we find a groove that brings passion to us, and makes writing enjoyable, no matter what it is, it should be our own decision to decide to trek down the danger's of that path. To write for yourself and no one else: not publishers, not editors and not even people you know. Or, you can flip this idea and write for someone you've lost or who you love. Whatever helps you.
What I'm saying is that....we shouldn't feel ashamed to write, or tell others that we write. Yet of course we do still; it's all very well for me to say all this stuff, but I often still question myself and feel guilty. Particularly, I feel guilty and embarrassed when I tell people the amount of books I've written, like it's too unbelievable and I'm boasting and I've made it up. (It's 7 by the way, not including the ten documentaries I've written and sketched and the new one I'm working on, and the revisions of my first five books).
Sounds stupid.
I hope these blogs don't seem too monotonous to any readers, and that there's still some hilarity in what I write.
You know, I thought I'd say that there's just something about the books of back then that is so much more than any of the books written now (definitely including my own), but I mean ones like Lord of the Rings and Jennie etc... But these books have a light to them, and they could write whatever they wanted, and however long-winded they wished.
In some parts of the Lord of the Rings they have two or three pages just devoted to a poem one of the Hobbit's has decided to sing.
How cool is that?
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amy sol blog |
One last thing if you would humour me dear friends. I wanted to share a memory I had with you:
I was with my family visiting some friends in Adelaide a few years back (quite a few), and we decided to walk there by way of this amazing beach.
The walk took four or so hours, but seriously, if there was a purgatory place I had to spend an eternity in, it would be that beach (or perhaps Bogatil beach)
We passed crystal areas of water, kittens playing amongst the rocks by the sea, millions of tiny pebbles and shells.
Perhaps what also made it magical for me was when I was walking be myself and out of nowhere I just felt as though someone had placed a hand on my shoulder, warm and solid. I looked behind me yet my family was a fair way back.
Despite the mystery of it, it gave me comfort.
So I will stop pestering you with chatter and leave you with the second part of my poem.
Don't let your dreams be eaten Lovers,
Miss CLScarlett xx
Story of a Wolf Part II:
Stillness.
I watched the fight from afar that night, mist curling in my wake...
As I saw a beast as black as shadows, curl and rip and shake...
He wore a hooded light and fought because he was forced...
Breath held fury, night held tears as those wolves, they attacked him near death...
He bayed his call, leapt like a deer, swung back to hold his ground...
Only to be beset by teeth, and calls for meat...his very own breed his doom,
Fought and fought, for hours they did until the streets were covered with murk...
A ghost-like yelp, crimson fear and the fleeing paws of many a wolf...
Crept into silence, and chill-cold night as he slowly lay silent...forgetting his name...
After an hour or so, once I was sure they had left I ran to the spot he had fell...
Looked upon he, hurt not just in flesh, and took him upon my soul...
I carried him, and the night became still.
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