Time out

Roots are a good place to start when writing a story. It looks back to the past and the sprouts that came with it as it matured to either a withered, gnarled sinew that was once a tree or to something like Shel Silverstein wrote about.

Tracing that root is crucial. For some writers, it was addiction, depression, war, curiousity, anger, fear and to swaggerjack Vonnegut, "so it goes." I think one good thing to have as roots should be a moral idea or vice versa.

Just picture an idea planted in moral values or dilemmas. But that doesn't mean the story should be that of good triumphs over evil but the main fact that a moral code exists. Yes, there are a lot of things to judge in a moral perspective: the police officer who deliberately takes his mind off paying fare on public transpo, wearing a badge on his chest or that young woman looking all professional with her fitted skirt and clean top knot who prefers to remain sitted after seeing a pregnant woman holding her elder child up on one hand, she just keeps on tinkering with her iPhone. 

To come from such moral vantage point would be to have character but it still does not translate to a clear template. I should not be judgmental to be moral but who shall judge these people? Let's decide it with a coin toss, or a trip to Dresden, or a long sermon on what happens to simple bad persons. The perspective is different and maybe, the lines shall never meet at a common point but somethings have to start somewhere. But wouldn't it be interesting to see more of a villain with a moral code he so personally conducts upon himself and others. Or a hero with such a difficult moral crisis that you wonder if it is at all possible for her to get out in time.

I can't think of things to say in this post. Things are just getting scrambled. Parting shot: we are all sphincters, one time or another. We can live as we wish but that does not mean we cannot be kept in our own codes.

I'll never regret this choice.

Evilest sons.

Steamy

Recycling my post before it becomes trash. Continue what you do, friends. 

Y'all are good at that shit.

Spreads like wild fire

I met a certainly disturbing dream last week. 

It was a train ride with an acquaintance I hardly ever know or see, or care for that matter. There was an awkward greeting followed by aloof glances. It's hard enough to see someone you really know in such a cramped space and limited time that it is more painful to see someone who barely scratched the surface of your attention.

There were exchanged remarks, skittering "how are you's" and skid marks of past happenings. There was a nervous air to it and it felt bad. How glad I was to wake up to a dark room with just enough light peeking through the windows and curtains.

This just in from real life, I just got my tippler of a father to read again. Interesting idea, he caught it like a swatter hits a fly: rare but satisfying. I think we may be having developments in our drinking sessions. Maybe we'll have more things to talk about than the ties that seem to be familiar to the both of us.

Also, I am writing crap right now so I am truly sorry. Vonnegut's quotes help a little.

Another thing to get out there, just bought 5 books. I'm a broke book slut who gets by with epub versions.

Some sort of a wedding

That dirty memory was all in sepia. 

I can see the scratches on the film used to take in the the figures, the faces that I can barely remember, their suits and dresses that first didn't make sense, the chairs and the light that bore through the poorly decorated room. It was like a walk towards something, somewhere, someone.

I can't make it up in my mind: the names behind the faces, the smiles and the congratulatory remarks. There were some tears from some faces; trickling down somehow flushed cheeks and from smiling eyes. They were happy but I did not know why. It seemed familiar. Maybe it was from some POV movie?

Then it hit, it was a walk to an altar. Those people were smiling and looking at me. One thing I can't seem to figure it is that why was I walking towards the altar? If i was the groom to be, shouldn't I be waiting for my bride at looking how perfect and shiny she was going to be? It was an agonizing slow walk and it is all coming back in swirls and strokes. Maybe it was a new thing in weddings? Or maybe, I was walking someone down the aisle. I couldn't know for sure, I didn't look to my right side. It was a blind spot; there were just unknown faces and smiles.

If it was a sort of an avant garde wedding, it was an awkward one. It was a silent film. I didn't know if it was romantic or an intro to a mindfuck or horror story line. I never got to the ending, the spool ran out of film.