Compendium, Part One

A rant (11/16/2015)

I am desperate.The weather is perfect for this sentiment; clouds coil themselvesaround my feet like so many long-gone lovers, anchoring me down; mybones creak with the effort, the pressure; my shoulders ache fromthis burden that I insist I must carry alone. The soft ghost ofsympathy brushes her lips to mine as I stride; her long memory gownflows around her ankles; she looks like a sibling to blind justice,but she can see the sadness in my eyes as they bubble tears withempty centers. I cannot breathe; the words to describe it will notescape the burned prison of my tongue, no matter how powerful I amtold that muscle is; my brain is my greatest asset and it has justeaten buckshot; its cleverness coils down my arms and into the mouthsof my fingers, which recoil at the taste of abandonment. I hearClaire from elementary years; I hear Clair de Lune; I cannot breathe,and no sound accompanies the two; I cannot walk, so I am left behind,a blind Polyphemus who must go alone with the sheep who do notunderstand him. Someday, the sheep shall starve, for I cannot feedthem; someday, the grass on my grave will die, fed by my own demise,and I with it will find the emerald of my legacy has faded from acity to but a sliver sold in a gas-station charm bracelet, and whatvalue can be found in the empty and the jaded? I am green with thatage-old envy; I was not smart enough to rise above it when I wasyoung, and now I am weighed down by the realities of an adulthood forwhich I was not prepared; all of this could have been prevented ifonly somebody had told me. I do not want this. I do not want to betwo decades old in a few months; I do not want to be the man theypull from the river, pending cause of death from a coroner who is farfrom compassionate with the skin my mother tended to when I was ill,nor the mind loaded with the pellets of self-loathing that I find myonly asset; perhaps he will keep my coffee eyes in a specimen jar andshow them off to his colleagues at a convention; perhaps they willbury me and I will be grass, for when I was young I sprouted like aweed and so often stopped to smell the roses. I am firmly plantedhere, in this prison I have built for myself; this feels unfair. Iwill not hold myself back for once in this task of self-expressionthat I will share with nobody; I will let Beatrice, my glowing,clacking companion, hear all that I have to say, and perhaps Artemisas well. I cannot handle this. I am listening to a song that is lacedwith words I do not speak and sentiments I do not understand.Somebody please, help me.  

Composition of the "Creation Myth" for my novel (5/26/2015):

CREATIONMYTH: "Before TheDawn, many blind demons stumbled about an empty world; they lived anddied unfulfilled and empty; they were cold-blooded and thusly lackingin soul."

Theybelieve that warm things (warm-blooded or powered) have souls, whichincludes hot-steam powered automatons. Many daughters are named afterwarm things so that they will be more appealing and thus attract agreater dowry; many other things besides this are also centeredaround the hot-cold dichotomy.

THEHOT/COLD DICHOTOMY

THE WARMTH OF MICHAEL'S EMOTIONS VERSUS THE COLD ONES OF ROSE HAWTHORNE

THE WARMTH OF INSIDIAE VERSUS THE COLDNESS OF THE LEGION

THE WARMTH OF YOUTH VERSUS THE COLDNESS OF OLD AGE

THE WARMTH OF STEAM VERSUS THE COLDNESS OF LEGION TECH

SUMMER VERSUS WINTER [ALSO TIES INTO THEME OF TIME]

Soon and so forth...

"Everything good starts blank and warm. In the heated softness of our lives, we carve the summaries of our own experiences and learnings; we compose the songs of the bards between our ears."