Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Celia closed her eyes for a second longer than would constitute a blink. Her long eyelashes fluttered, caressing Quentin's cheek. He rested with his arms stretched coolly above his head, fingers clasped as if in prayer. Her face almost pressed against his; misty breath rolling across the space between them. She lifted her hand and gently soothed his brow, tracing the line of his nose to his lips. He felt cold. She closed her eyes, for longer this time, and sighed. Celia, too, felt the chill as she stepped away from Quentin and shut the freezer door.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 5:40 PM
Monday, November 29, 2010
So great is the power of human self-deception that, despite my bunion's relentless ache, I didn't think it necessary to reinforce the corrugated iron roof, because I didn't believe that the meteor shower would happen. Ignore bunions at your peril.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 4:50 PM
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
The following excerpt is lifted from a thesis I wrote as part of my third PHD. At the time (1998) I was living in Athens and submitting papers extramurally to the Aristotelian University of Peripatetic Contemplation, Atlantis. (Formerly the Platonic University of Socratic Dialogue). It involves a field experiment I conducted with locals from the inland village of Ano Souli which hypothesised that 'Neither rhyme nor reason can be explained either in rhyme or by reason.'
...The stifling session neared its conclusion. The sun maintained an intense heat even as it rapidly lowered. Answers had been difficult to extract and my theory was no closer to being proved or disproved. A zephyr passed and gave cause to the parched ground on which we stood to puff clouds of choking dust. The tiny dessicated particles mixed with sweat and spittle to form a dry paste on the faces of us all. I sensed my subjects were agitated and tired of my questions. One last attempt, I optimistically thought. A breakthrough of some sort was required to boost morale for tomorrow's gathering.
"Hands up if you've brought dishonour to the group," I accused in my most dictatorial tone. "Dishonour!" Not one of the accused raised an arm above their head. They shuffled uncomfortably and surveyed the hot earth. "Well, dishonour has been visited upon this village; of that there is not doubt." I was joking, of course. "Now, wave your hands in the air if you just don't care!" I invited in my most convincing children's television presenter voice. "Woot woot!" was the cacophonous response as 24 hands were flung skywards.
I was perplexed. How could it be that to indicate apathy such an active response was deemed universally appropriate? "Ok, let's call it a day," I proffered, and hoped my odd English vernacular was understood. "We'll reconvene tomorrow." Tomorrow I would ask them to shrug nonchalantly, or twitch an eyebrow if they just didn't care. Would this engender the same woot woots of apathetic approval? I had a hunch that it would not, and the reason was something to do with rhyme...
As you can tell, this was a thesis at the forefront of its discipline.
I may include larger tracts in my yet to be published autobiography.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 5:38 PM
Monday, November 15, 2010
I've been hearing voices in my head for a while now. People worry for me, but I allay their fears with a small dose of sanity. In my head is really the most appropriate place to hear voices, I tell them. If I begin to hear them out of my fingers, then you can be certain something is terribly wrong.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 5:28 PM
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
All authors are artificial constructs to some extent. Derrida was partially correct when he suggested nothing exists outside the text. I advance the theory to a further conclusion: not only does nothing exist outside the text, but more than that, the text actively creates this Author. I imbue the text and it imbues me. If it were not for the benevolence of words and language I would not exist and yet neither would the text that is formed to describe my existence. The text does not absorb me to supply a framework for my narrative but rather it designs and delivers me and I in turn supply it with the narrative with which to explain my being. There is no hierarchy. Rather the text and I are inseparable: letters are my cells; phonemes are my DNA; my atoms are thematic.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 10:02 AM
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
His ears burned and he felt sick. Dad's voice was uncomfortably loud. Strident adult debate about the news of the day excluded him as it swirled around the room. His stupid unshod feet dangled exposed from beneath the nylon cape the barber had draped across his shoulders before lifting him onto a board that straddled the arms of the solid steel chair, raising him to an embarrassingly false height. He was too hot and the noise was too much. He was being ignored and everyone was laughing at him. They must have been mocking him for the ridiculous way he had to sit propped up with naked toes. Frustrated tears welled in the large mirror. He caught his father looking at him and they were both ashamed.
Composed by Anonymous Author at 1:12 PM