I finally ditched iMovie for Filmmaker Pro (which has treated me very well, so far). Hasta la vista, babehhhh
This means a few things, namely that 1. I will maintain a higher level of daily sanity, and 2. I really, truly need to update my acting/performance reel. Again.
This takes more time than one might think. I often wish I could tell casting directors that if they check out my YouTube channel, they will get a hearty dose of my personality (since we all like to know about those with whom we will work closely), performance flexibility, and, if neither of those, a snort-laugh at some of the dorky content. All without getting blacklisted for being the worst role applicant imaginable, of course…
Oh. I suppose there is good voice acting from my readings of Wheel of Time excerpts.
I watch you, quiet, as a cacophony must be ringing in your ears only
Your every cell wars. Every soldier is deployed at last, for the final, desperate charge.
All I hear is machines ticking and clicking,
A small “beep,”
Your breathing, and the sounds of your pain as you fight for air.
I take your hand, quiet, and what I remember most is not the sound of your agony
But the paperthin feel of your skin as I rubbed my thumb across it,
Carefully avoiding the purple mountainous bruise that stains half its breadth,
And how I felt warmth, love, and I think you did, too,
You fell asleep.
Written in grief May 31, 2023, 5 days after his passing
In reading a novel, any novel, we have to know perfectly well that the whole thing is nonsense, and then, while reading, believe every word of it. Finally, when we’re done with it, we may find—if it’s a good novel—that we’re a bit different from what we were before we read it, that we have been changed a little, as if by having met a new face, crossed a street we never crossed before. But it’s very hard to say just what we learned, how we were changed.
The artist deals with what cannot be said in words.
The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words.Ursula K. Le Guin
Codependence needs to be defined wisely in order for us to understand that humans were made to live in community.
To quote an antiquated animated movie I still love:
If you’re gonna hunt humans, you might wanna remember that we travel in packs.From the film Titan A.E.
Written in August 6, 2020
This blank page is my bane and my blessing.
I go away and then come back here, time and time again, abandoning the page like an unfaithful companion and returning like a besotted lover.
There is something that speaks freedom in the boundless opportunities of words not yet written. The unknown. And yet, I feel the crushing the weight of the unknown just as keenly as soon as I leave the page. Life is not a blank piece of paper. There, lives are written, people I love drawn with as much detail and tenderness as the finest sketch Michaelangelo ever penciled. Stories without an ending are there, the sublimity of their telling only increasing with the passage of time. But beyond that, who can say? The sketches, the stories, are not eternal, but everlasting. They have a starting point. And no mortal can see into the everlasting – in fact, sometimes we can’t see what’s right in front of us at any given moment.
As I read this Word this morning, what I want to see is before me and behind me. The faithfulness of God – now. The past stories of God’s “right hand” – yet, now. The comfort I seek is moment by moment as well as in precedent, I fear, for there is no panacea for the overarching pain of this ongoing trial, and certainly nothing to reach into the everlasting future and tell me exactly what’s going to happen. So, shall I content myself with the future as yet more blank pages?
Blank pages, perhaps, but stamped – help my unbelief! – with the invisible seal of the God both sovereign and benevolent. This I must believe, lest I give in to despair.
A new morning dawns. And anything, anything, could happen today. Already, the tears want to flow – Lord, how can I hope when each time I do, I am disappointed? – but the pages, I know, are already written in invisible ink…lemon juice lines that only the blacklight held in a child’s hand can see….and they are divinely composed. May I be childlike enough to hold up that blacklight with anticipation of adventure, of hope, and of good. If I lose those…no. Where else can I go, Lord? You have the words of eternal life.
Let me never not look up again — But here, right now, The lake-sand is blue in the clouded midday grey-sky and the broken reeds are quick and sharp — I must pick my way through them. So, I step slow, and Images in the corner of my eye are dreamy, and True as true — Pale wood regurgitated by moody Neptune, which Art (she belongs not to Greeks or Romans) took into her hands and twisted and polished until it gleamed like silver: horses’ heads and back-bending aquatic things no eye has seen — I’ve seen them in my mind, though, where it is too deep and dark for science to reach, also — those grandchildren of dryads and nymphs: petrified myth. If I look up now, it will break the spell. And now it not the time to do so. In a minute, or an hour; two…a year? There will be a time. But it is not here. April 27, 2023, 1110 Jaimie Krycho Written outside Loyal Coffee, reflecting on a lakeside search(for Chris’s lost lens cap)-turned-poetry walk on a cool spring day
Daily writing promptWhat’s a job you would like to do for just one day?
Sometimes my anxiety feels a lot like Tirian’s premonition: that he would be fed into the mouth of Tash’s stable ere the day’s end.
The metaphor holds – if you’ve read The Last Battle, you know that Tash may well be in there. The terror that shook the earth and consumed the ape in one moment of blue-white heat and cacophony may very, very well be in there…but not all inside is as it appears under the dying sky, amongst lurid fire-lit figures, outside.
I’ve finished the first draft of a work of children’s literature, entitled The Delta Door. I might keep a few skeletal pieces, but most of the body is going to be, shall we say, transmogrified.
Honestly, I was okay with the text until I did a Narnia re-read, and remembered just how lovely and poignant children’s literature (at its best) can be. Gosh dangit, but Lewis can tell a yarn! “The Magician’s Nephew” particularly captivated me. Honestly, since I was revisiting it for the first time since pre-teenage days, I remembered next to nothing about it. The original multiverse! And there was no Dr. Strange involved!
To be continued.
P.S. The post that preceded this speaks of “Secondary Color.” I did finish that short story, by the way. I submitted to a few publications, but no bites. I never did complete the next “Bloodlines” novella, but I was struggling with a LITERAL Deus ex machine, which is surprisingly easy to fall into… *shruuuuuug*