Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.



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Saturday, October 30, 2010

Friday, October 29, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

No, Mann is an island.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

People who bother me.

People who have lit a fire in a hospital emergency department just so they can be the one to put it out and claim hero status bother me.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

DNA.

My genetic code is made up of only lowercase letters and includes a silent 'g'. 
It was first written on the back of a napkin, and has since been typeset on my cell structure in 14pt Helvetica Medium on 22pt leading, left aligned. What this means for me as I evolve is thus far unclear.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Writing.

Writing is not like thinking about writing; writing is like thinking.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Friday, October 22, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

Things are what they seem until we learn otherwise. We think that the sky is blue, the rock is hard, the fire is hot. In fact, the blueness, the hardness and the hotness of those things are not the same blueness, hardness and hotness as you know in all your experiences. You are merely observing the effects of these things upon yourself. Similarly, you cannot be certain that you exist or whether you have achieved singularity with an idea of what it is to exist.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

People who bother me.

People who, constantly burdened by misfortune, have yet to develop the antidote of optimism, bother me.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Ridiculous.

Life is intrinsically ridiculous; nearly all things are idiotic.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Friday, October 15, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

What is matter? Does it matter? What if it does matter? What does it matter? As a matter of fact it does matter that it matters: matter matters; as to why it matters is another matter.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

People who bother me.

People who are indescribably moved by their own soliloquies bother me.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Meanwhile.

Meanwhile, tucked into their beds, fast asleep, Poppy and Sid were dreaming of monkeys and trains and cheese and dancing. On this particular spring morning the sun decided not to get up and it remained night time for ever more. Poppy and Sid were troubled by this to begin with, but adapted well enough. After a short while, the gravity of the situation became apparent and what had begun as a super adventure turned for the worse. A chaotic descent into war and madness by all of humanity followed. Somehow Poppy and Sid ended up as the last human beings alive. They were obviously very competent and resilient. How do you think you would have done in similar circumstances?
Don't be too sure... You see, I made this little story up. That's a fact. And if I had placed you into the story I would have fabricated a scenario not necessarily in your favour. That is the power of fiction. So just be aware one day you may end up as a character in a story; possibly a flawed character.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Shaping.

Our crude reality requires a finesse that only the gentle stroke of uncertainty can apply.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Post.

This post entitles you to one hour's contemplation on the merits of black type on a white background. 
One post per reader. To be redeemed by 20.12.2010.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Friday, October 8, 2010

Metaphysical Fridays.

Why is there something rather than nothing? Or is there?

Thursday, October 7, 2010

People who bother me.

People who vote for a political party, believe a religion, practise inane traditions, think certain things and behave certain ways, not because that is what they have explored and decided upon through experience, but because it's what their parents did, bother me.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Poppy.

The phrase 'tall poppy syndrome' was invented by twerps to avoid justifiable criticism. It doesn't exist in practice. As long as diversity of values exists, there will be deserved criticism of those false icons who hold themselves up as people that we should aspire to be like. That is not tall poppy syndrome, that is honesty. Place no merit in the idea that your perceived achievements warrant universal regard. If you're being a dick, then you're a dick. Respect is earned, whether you're a famous-anus or not. Don't attribute the reason you're now disliked to your success. Success isn't the flaw; your new personality is. We're not jealous, we're saddened that you've become a jerk. We don't want to cut you down, we just want the nice person back. Never label your fall from popularity as the result of the non-existent 'tall poppy syndrome.' That's just another way you're carrying on as a prat.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Monday, October 4, 2010

Physical process.

Delivering the words to readers was all that mattered. The roughly typed pages, the smudged ink, the imperfect typesetting with its widows and orphans and spelling mistakes, the poor punctuation, the stream of consciousness – they all undid the intended goal. Words were diluted, their meaning lost in the translation of the the physical process of writing. I really need to develop my telepathy and find a niche market, he thought, screwing up another draft. 

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Knowledge.

Despite a love of knowledge I cannot conceive a solitary realistic thought.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Friday, October 1, 2010

Venn diagram.

Metaphysical Fridays.

During a visit to a farm, a man saw the farmer feeding his pigs. The farmer would lift a pig up to an apple tree, and the pig would eat the apples off the tree. They moved from one tree to another until the pig was satisfied, then he would start again with another pig. The bemused man watched this for some time, then said, “This is the most inefficient method of feeding pigs that I can imagine. Just think of the time that would be saved if you shook the apples off the tree and let the pigs eat them from the ground!” The farmer replied, “But what’s time to a pig?”