I don't have delusions of grandeur, she decreed, I have the blueprint for grandeur.
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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Wrong.
I find you witty, kind, attractive and intelligent, but on all matters regarding what constitutes exemplary writing, wrong, she said to her soon to be ex-publisher.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Prepare.
Walking past a history of mirrors reflecting more than we can see, I check myself (before you wreck my Self); nothing's in place. I look harder and see my hair is ok, my skin is ok, my eyes are not ok so I look down and see my centre is ok and move on. I prepare as best I can for something for which I can never be truly prepared.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Puppets.
Consider the development of philosophical thinking, particularly in humans, and illustrate its significance through the use of shadow puppets. Compare this to other kinds of thinking in other species, contrasting the advancement of dugongs with that of giraffes.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Why.
Why? The cursor winked back at Reece.
Reset. Respect. Rescind. Rhesus.
Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Why try different writing styles to find a voice?
Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!
Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.
Why? The cursor continued to wink at Reece.
Why would I?
Why what where...?
Why had he questioned her?
Why the long face?
Why all the fuss?
Why me?
Why not?
He'd always had an issue with the biology of the birth. Out of his mother's (his mother's!) vagina. And what sort of conception was it? Dad never offered him this information as a tease, and he didn't ask. Reece would wait until his own son turned 21 and then drop it on him in the speech. "You were concieved during a root of epic proportions. I was off my tree and your mother barely hanging from the branches of hers. It was the morning after a night of clubbing... my sperm must've been tied in knots. No idea how they swam the canal. Ha! Classic!" And then his boy would scull his yard glass. If he had a daughter he'd obviously change it up a little. Oh dear, a daughter. Complex and delicate creatures (females!) the likes of whom he'd barley learned to interact with even at his advanced age.
Reset. Respect. Rescind. Rhesus.
Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Why try different writing styles to find a voice?
Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!
Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.
Why? The cursor continued to wink at Reece.
Why would I?
Why what where...?
Why had he questioned her?
Why the long face?
Why all the fuss?
Why me?
Why not?
He'd always had an issue with the biology of the birth. Out of his mother's (his mother's!) vagina. And what sort of conception was it? Dad never offered him this information as a tease, and he didn't ask. Reece would wait until his own son turned 21 and then drop it on him in the speech. "You were concieved during a root of epic proportions. I was off my tree and your mother barely hanging from the branches of hers. It was the morning after a night of clubbing... my sperm must've been tied in knots. No idea how they swam the canal. Ha! Classic!" And then his boy would scull his yard glass. If he had a daughter he'd obviously change it up a little. Oh dear, a daughter. Complex and delicate creatures (females!) the likes of whom he'd barley learned to interact with even at his advanced age.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Verity.
She had tried to discuss this with her husband, but he waved the conversation aside in his wet non-confrontational way. He was disbelieving that there could be any problems in the Maven household, and flippantly passed a remark ‘at least we know Verity’s not on drugs or hanging with the wrong crowd... she doesn’t seem to have any friends these days!’ And he nervously laughed, realising that not only had he betrayed his daughter, he had neither the integrity nor inner strength to fix it. Underneath the family ideal lay something awkward from which he shied. As far as he was concerned it was a mother-daughter thing... Now if they’d had a boy... then.... he pictured himself passing a rugby ball between father and son and sorting out all the kid’s issues on a Saturday afternoon. Teenage girls were intricate and delicate and... he shuddered.
The timer buzzed on the stove and the thought disappeared with the steam rising from the saucepan of peas on the boil.
The timer buzzed on the stove and the thought disappeared with the steam rising from the saucepan of peas on the boil.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Poem.
From the collection '8 poems about me and you.'
9
Back then, if you wanted to, you were going to...
and... or become...
You could easily have...
or... if you'd preferred.
Not so long ago, you could... or.... or... and...
if you so desired.
You were even...
if you'd chosen to.
You were to be... or... or... and...
If.
Less than a lifetime ago,
you could do anything you wanted it seemed,
except retain the ability to see infinite potential in yourself.
Friday, September 2, 2011
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