Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts

Sunday, November 23, 2014

The Pilot's Melancholy



Sat through 2 baby dedications at church today.  It struck me that my feelings towards such, are the same feelings I've been carrying around since adolescence. A deep cynicism.  I saw large families - with great grandparents, grandparents, parents.  People my age with kids.  And what do I have?  I'm the poster-child for "free will", as in the compatibilist view.  All my choices, have stemmed from a certain cynicism, and have landed me where I'm at in life - I'm unable to share in joy.  Unable to have joy.  My entire universe is steeped in melancholy, sometimes bearable, sometimes not.  It has been so since I can remember.

Dominik Smialowski

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Pre-Raphaelite William Morris & Forgotten Fantasy



I have been writing and rewriting a science fiction story with the working title of "The Rise of Baphomet" for at least a couple of years now.  Early on, I happened to come across an image of "The Orange Tree" by pre-Raphaelite William Morris:




Little did I know that it would so capture my imagination!  I placed the tapestry within my story, and within the story, it veils other worlds; and alas!, it has indeed veiled other worlds!  For a couple of years the images of Morris' work have made a lasting impression upon me.  I recognized his famous "The Tree of Life" on the album cover of a German Pagan Folk band called "Faun".  The album was "Eden". 

Here first is Morris' famous "The Tree of Life" (note 6 birds):




Now here it is as seen upon the album "Eden":





I have decided that I must own both tapestries—"The Orange Tree" and "The Tree of Life".  While searching out prices, I became aware that Morris was an author, amongst other things.  Now, I am quite a bibliophile, and it pleased me exceedingly that I had discovered something new for myself.  Imagine my delight when I learned that William Morris had influenced J.R.R. Tolkien!

I acquired this only today, and got an amazing deal on it that would have ended shortly—my timing in coming across it was impeccable—it was in near fine condition, a first printing, Newcastle Publishing, 1976.  It is William Morris' fantasy collection, "Golden Wings And Other Stories Forgotten"!  It is Newcastle's 8th Volume of Forgotten Fantasy.  I will be needing the others in the series...

It was first the image of "The Orange Tree" which drew me into this phantasmagorical world of influence.  I knew that within that tree, there was my muse.  I am more determined than ever to finish off my novelette (novel?), "The Rise of Baphomet" and also to glean that which I can from Morris.  It is unusual too that I find the Pagan folk band "Faun" to not be ridiculous.  I am very picky in music, and much of what they do is to my liking, even though it is borne of Naturalistic Pantheism.  It's most fitting to go along with Baphomet, yeah?






Monday, March 28, 2011

Luciferous Logolepsy in Rationalization of the Resurrection



A Defense of Wordiness in the Word

 by Aaron DeWeese


    A former acquaintance of mine (I shall hereafter refer to their person as one Ms. J. Dubedat), whom often was known to overstep the boundaries of familiarity with her acquaintances, was in the habit of calling me, at every chance, a neo-intellectual, simply due to my love of rare, obscure, archaic words.  I think, had Dubedat the knowledge, she rather would have called me a pseudo-intellectual—that term being more fitted to her intended insult. 

    It was very obvious to me that Dubedat's favorite acronym to use as a reply to every online conversation—her word to type for every occasion, other than when she was shoveling ad hominem attacks upon mine head—was "lol".

     Shakespeare's Polonius said that "brevity is the soul of wit".  Shakespeare's Polonius would not say that had he been borne into the world of netspeak. 

    I suspect that Ms. Dubedat's habitual use of slang was due to her fear of being considered—by those peers of hers yet remaining—a pseudo-intellectual.  She wished to be ambiguous, to not burden herself with the yoke of assertive opinion, to not speak from her heart or her mind, to appear in her visitations upon all matters with friendly pluralistic sneering visage—in other words, she wished to be damnably annoying to everyone, reserving for herself, in secret, a perverse feeling of assured superiority. 

    For Dubedat, being an intellectual must have been something that was utterly unattainable.  She perhaps thought it was a title for the one percent of the population having an IQ of 170 or higher.  To then see me going about using words she did not know the meaning of was akin to blasphemy.  She must cut me down, bring me down to the vocabulary level of everyone else, to the level of herself!  Large vocabularies are for only authenticated academic intellectuals!

     Aldous Huxley simply stated that “An intellectual is a person who has found something more interesting than sex.”  Just think of our culture, and you can see where everyone's mind lay.  He was right - that which is not sex-centered, is intellectual!  Nearly everything sold in our society is a product which claims that we could have all the sex we could ever want if we would only purchase that material which would make us irresistible.  Materialism is anti-intellectualism.  Jack London’s Wolf Larsen, the antagonist of “The Sea Wolf”, could only grasp at philosophy and literature as a man grasping at the morning mists, finding no meaning in life other than pleasure and survival, which to him, was unattainable.

    Let me turn now for a moment, in defense of myself, to the discussion of sesquipedalian loquaciousness versus simplicity of writing.  Is less more?  According to the experiments of Daniel Oppenheimer at Princeton University "Anything that makes a text hard to read and understand, such as unnecessarily long words or complicated fonts, will lower readers' evaluations of the text and its author". 

    I for one consider the wordiness of Melville, the obscurity of Joyce, the scatological encyclopedicness of Rabelais, to be exquisite.  The broader the vocabulary of a writer, the more I am impressed, the more I am indebted to them.  I actually dreamed of rare precious archaic words after having read Sir Thomas Browne's "Hydriotaphia, Urn Burial."  I think Oppenheimer's experiment was biased, being carried out by non-readers, who, of course, make up the majority of the world today.  I believe the majority of bibliophiles and print addicts will always disagree with Oppenheimer's results. 

    Isaac Asimov stated that his goal in writing was to write as simply and clearly as possible.  Who here will confess that his prose has not aged too well?  His ideas are still brilliant.  He believed that the relating of his ideas must be "dumbed down" for the public.  I cannot tell you how infuriated I become at modern translations of old texts and at abridgements.  Let me take us further into the argument.

    William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway—these two writers are as diametrically opposed in style as you could possibly wish for. 


     First, William Faulkner, speaking of Ernest Hemingway: "He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary."

     And Hemingway’s response: "Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?"

    Now Hemingway, was to me, lazy in his relying on his readers to furnish imagery and ambience.  In Hemingway's response to Faulkner, he falsely alludes that big words contain no emotion.  It's not Faulkner's fault if you are ignorant of the English language.  Faulkner, unlike Hemingway, does not keep you ignorant of language, but encourages growth.  Run to that dictionary and you will be illuminated!

    Here is my final and strongest argument in favor of Luciferous logolepsy (Luciferous [adj. - illuminating, literally and figuratively] Logolepsy [n. - an obsession with words], in other words: 'an illuminating obsession with words').  If we do not use words, we lose words.  They do become extinct if we do not tend to their care.  If we continue lowering the bar instead of raising it, eventuality will see the realization H.G. Wells’ dystopian vision of a future full of beautiful idiots cannibalized. 

    Let me now return to Ms. J. Dubedat.  She, when I first met her, was a Messianic Jew obsessed with persecuting Christians for not following the Bible more closely.  Pork was the devil’s food, and she constantly had to guard herself against it.  She started college, read Thomas Paine, and became convinced the American forefathers were Deists (this is of course modern conjecture brought about by a movement of revisionist historians).  One who takes time to read the writings of the American forefather’s will be convinced of their Christianity—besides of course Jefferson—and with Franklin it's not clear either way, though I find his activity within the Hellfire Club to be quite disturbing. 

    After a period of unemployment followed by the loss of her house, Ms. Dubedat became a modern Deist herself, or, as she stated, the equivalent of a theistic atheist.  It was at this time that both her and her husband claim to have had experiences with UFOs - her husband encountering several craft early one Tennessee morning in a field on his way to work; a few days later, a large craft following their car on the interstate; that evening strange lights, which they felt to be sentient and somehow aware of them, sitting above the mountain peaks at night, outside of their home.   Now, I’ve no idea if they were pulling my leg or not, but I do find it very interesting at what time of their lives this phenomenon allegedly presented itself.  Her husband allegedly contacted MUFON and had a meeting with a representative.  If they made all of this up for my benefit, I must salute them as tremendously and ridiculously ostentatious liars.

     Ms. Dubedat one day inquired of my faith and my thoughts on a God who would allow the Holocaust to happen.  I told her what I thought, and she never inquired of me again—said she would go crazy if she had to listen to me any further, or something of the like.  She told me that should I become educated I would outgrow my faith—see it as something poisonous and defunct in today's world.  I've no doubt that this would be the wish of academia at large—to kill off all Christian people (who are commanded by God to love everyone) who do not adhere to their humanistic religion, all in the name of ridding the world of those who are intolerant of others.  I do hope that Ms. Dubedat becomes educated herself, one day.  As Isaac Asimov said, "Self-education, I firmly believe, is the only kind of education there is." 

    Ms. Dubedat seems to me quite bitter towards everyone.  I hear that she has become published in some manner or other, which surprises me, because I rarely ever saw her write anything than "lol". 

     Ms. Dubedat, in her fear of becoming a false person of wisdom, was satisfied with the wisdom she gleaned from those who claimed to be wise.  She would repeat their wisdom, and think not for herself.

     It's tragic to me that Christians are not unlike Ms. Dubedat.  Ask them why the modern man should believe in God, and they reply “Because he is God”.  The modern man recognizes not this Truth, but the fallacy of circular logic.  The Christian has failed.  Christians must grow in knowledge and wisdom - they are severely lacking, totally unable to defend their faith against a world which has much wisdom and knowledge. 

    Charismatic Christians use scriptures to prove to themselves that wisdom and knowledge are only for a certain people—atheist evolutionists, scientists, liberals, etcetera.  Reason is evil and "an abnormal way of thinking" [-Joyce Meyer].  To these people of faith education is damnable, science a sin.  Many skeptics and believers alike point to 1 Corinthians 1:19, of course for different reasons — “For it is written, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the understanding of the prudent.”

    To me, there is no incompatibility between God and Science.  Francis Collins, a professing Christian who heads up the Human Genome project and has debated Richard Dawkins, sees it the same way.  I highly recommend his writings, as well as those of Peter Hitchens - Christopher Hitchens brother, and too of Ravi Zacharias, who takes on Stephen Hawking.



“...in this, Christianity is like all science. The discoveries in science are such as to confound the wise in their own conceits, and overthrow the opinions of the prudent, just as much as the gospel does, and thus show that both are from the same God - the God who delights to pour such a flood of truth on the mind as to overwhelm it in admiration of himself, and with the conviction of its own littleness. The profoundest theories in science, and the most subtle speculations of people of genius, in regard to the causes of things, are often overthrown by a few simple discoveries - and discoveries which are at first despised as much as the gospel is. The invention of the telescope by Galileo was to the theories of philosophers and astronomers, what the revelation of the gospel was to the systems of ancient learning, and the deductions of human wisdom. The one confounded the world as much as the other; and both were at first equally the object of opposition or contempt.” - Albert Barnes

"O Timothy, keep that which is committed to thy trust, avoiding profane and vain babblings, and oppositions of science falsely so called." 1 Timothy 6:20

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and instruction.” Proverbs 1:7

“See to it that no one takes you captive by philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the world, and not according to Christ.” Colossians 2:8

To the weak became I as weak, that I might gain the weak: I am made all things to all [men], that I might by all means save some. 1 Corinthians 9:10

“But sanctify the Lord God in your hearts: and [be] ready always to [give] an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear:” 1 Peter 3:15

I want to tell you that we were made in the image of God — ratiocination is a gift from God.  We are to defend our faith with reason.  We are to share the simple truth of the gospel.

 "For Christ sent me not to baptize, but to preach the gospel: not with wisdom of words, lest the cross of Christ should be made of none effect." 1st Corinthians 1:17


Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Aaron's WRITER'S TIDBITS - Exercise #5: Changing Your Life



Exercise:  Choose a dramatic event from your life.  Write about it in first person.  Rewrite it in third person and drastically change the setting.  Use the emotion of the story in a different story line.  The objective?  Transform emotion and fact from truth to fiction.

Example:

Fat Lonesome Death
by Aaron DeWeese

It was a warm Martian summer's eve.  Young Master Abdul-Baari Glyphstickler was eleven years old.  Musin, his father—a car salesman, and Fadwa, his mother—a secretary for her cousin, a local shaikh, had both been summoned by the Caliph to deal with a case of a young mullah who had allegedly stolen something from the main temple.  Musin and Fadwa both silently suspected that this was a false allegation arising from the mullah refusing to gain the favor, sexually speaking, of the older pigs.  The consequence of rebelling against authority would be carried out by the community that very night, within closed walls.  Musin and Fadwa would place their votes to appease the consensus, and cast their stones in turn, to return to the guarded peace of their home.  Their sleep would be troubled and many prayers would be said for their young son, Abdul-Baari.

    Young Master Abdul-Baari Glyphstickler's parents feared for him while he was in attendance at the madrasa, knowing most intimately the aggressiveness of the sodomites, equally as lustful as their Catholic priest counterparts on Earth.

    On this warm evening, Abdul-Baari sat alone in his parent's home blissfully lost in a virtual Thousand and One Nights.  He paused from his journeys in cyberspace to lift dehydrated eggplant to his mouth, which he followed with rose water.

    Suddenly, Abdul-Baari became startled by a terrible noise rising from the highway below Summit Street, the high street on which his house stood.  The sound was of screeching of tires.

    In eleven years of life on Mars, he had witnessed the influx of more and more people from Earth.  Mars had built its first thriving industry - Jumaana, a car factory.  The import of petroleum products was quite inexpensive.  All Martian cars were economical long living diesel engines.  Their design was that which resembled small silver spheres, with four small fifteen inch radials underneath.  Jumaanas were now how the successful Martian traveled.

    Abdul-Baari knew the sound of screeching tires on the highway very well.  Kashandenville Road was the southern route which led directly into the hub of the city.  People didn’t seem to slow down as they approached the city.  He cringed and waited for the following impact.  There it was, finally, but it didn't sound right to him.  It sounded...wrong.  He ran outside into the back yard.

    Summit Street looked down upon Kashandenville Road.  A few hundred yards down, the road narrowed and ran directly through the middle of Iltmo Village.  Abdul-Baari could see customers running out of the Texaco gas station.  He couldn’t see the scene of the accident itself for some trees, but it had taken place directly in front of the station.  Abdul-Baari briskly walked a short ways down Summit Street, so that he might see better.  His neighbor, Mr. Bishr had come out of his house and was standing with a grimace on his face as he gazed at the accident below.  Somehow Mr. Bishr managed to stay on top of all happenings in the neighborhood.  He seemed a living repository of public information which would rather itself remain private in most cases.  Abdul-Baari approached Mr. Bishr slowly.

    “It’s pretty bad,” he said flatly.

    “What is it,” Abdul-Baari asked as he came to stand beside his neighbor.

    He saw for himself.  A single Jumaana was stopped in the middle of the highway, its front end smashed in.  Black tire marks trailed quite a ways behind it.  Something big was laying a ways down the road, in front of it.  It’s what made the sickening sound of the impact.  It was a very fat man.

    “I’m sure that fella just got killed,” Mr. Bishr said.

    Abdul-Baari jumped the guard rail and bounded down the hill behind the Texaco station.  In a few moments he was standing at the side of Kashandenville Road, in front of the gas pumps, with a small group of people who stood gawking.  A woman was crying hysterically.  Abdul-Baari looked at the fat man in the road.  He wasn’t moving.  Several streams of blood were making their way down the road.  The streams were incredibly long.  He didn’t doubt the blood would reach into Iltmo Village before long.  He heard the wailing of a siren in the distance.  They would wash the blood away.

    The men in white covered the fat man and took him away.  The crowd slowly dispersed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Aaron's WRITER'S TIDBITS - Exercise #4: Observation & Description



The journal pictured above is from Oberon Design.  I really came to like them very much after having found one of their journals at Goodwill for under two bucks and reselling it for just under a hundred.
 
Journals, diaries, notebooks — writers collect useful things in such.  F. Scott Fitzgerald's notebooks show how a writer should go about collecting things.  You should have many different notebooks and classifications of them, viz., Conversations and Things Overheard, Descriptions of Humanity, First Sentences.  You should keep a daily journal, a dream journal, a journal for poetry, for musings, for essays, and if you wish to follow Pepys, a journal of bowel movements...


Journal Keeping Exercise

Robert Anton Wilson spoke of using English prime or E-prime — the use of English without any form of is or being.  RAW states that E-prime is an acceptable form of expression in modern science, as well as being the type of consciousness Zen Buddhism tries to induce.  

Forms of the verb to be do not create vivid images.  By using E-prime, you will begin to choose more interesting verbs, and you will become more of an accurate writer.  For example, instead of writing "John Lyerly was a scary man," you might write, "At the sight of John Lyerly's brutal shaven face within Julia's boarding house, Eugene's own face filled with a sudden recollective horror".  

Make a page long entry in your journal daily.  Try to extend the length of your sentences.  Avoid "and" to connect the long sentence; try out other conjunctions.  Experiment with shifts from third person to first person.  Make use of stream of consciousness and internal monologue.  Try making an entry containing only nouns of the day.

Example:

Tissue, Toilet, Socks, Coffee, Biscuit, Livermush, Grape Jelly, Computer, eBay, Chess, Bed, Goodwill, Freud, Farid Ud-Din Attar, Clifford D. Simak, Red Light, Woodfin Police, Issued Warning, Salad, Soup, Twizzlers, Red Hots, American Pickers, Universal Waite, Bicycle, Ginger, Valerian Root.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Aaron's WRITER'S TIDBITS - Exercise #3: Haunted Past

John Brill, “Bad Memory Untitled # 732-16” (2004–2006). Toned Silver Gelatin Print. Courtesy of Kent Gallery.

  
Future's Past Character

Negative emotions create strong memories.  In Current Directions in Psychological Science, a journal of the Association for Psychological Science, Boston College psychologist, Elizabeth Kensinger's research reveals that negative events are remembered in greater detail than positive ones.  This is an interesting fact to ponder upon, and ponder upon we do, helplessly.

Our childhoods are as a great expanse of darkling farmland, now ripened.  We may pick the evil fruit from that nebulous intercerebral landscape and examine it with such an authentic lucidity that we often resurrect our experiences; and, consequently, our emotions reflexively and undeniably respond, as if time itself had been ripped away, and the event lay before our mind's eye as fresh as the moment that it had occurred. 

As you read this, dear reader, we conjure up the unsettling character dwelling within your mind since your youth.  Someone who triggered strong negative emotions within yourself—envy, fear, hate, resentment.  They were very influential; they held power over you—had the power to make you take risks, had the power to make you miserable.  The might have been your childhood tormentor, might have been your friend.  And there that person is; immediately standing before you, clear as a bell, eyes smiling, with mocking smirk.  You had their name on the tip of your tongue all this time.  That's the one.  We shall use that one.



WRITING EXERCISE


We now have our real-life character.  Write down the details of what your remember of the person.  Did you ever have any encounters with them, or had you only observed them from a distance?  Be specific— relive your memories vividly in your journal, and expose emotion.  

Next, if you have not seen this person in several years, place their character in the present time.  What are they currently doing?  What is their role in society?  How might they live?

Now, place their character into the future.  Where will that person be ten years from now?



Example:

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Aaron's WRITER'S TIDBITS - Exercise #2: Journals

The unexamined life is not worth living. -Socrates
  
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. -William Wordsworth



Individual experience matters; all is not one, one is not all.  You are important and worthy of introspection, of inspiration.

A good writer can elicit emotion from day to day life; can dramatize each and every second of eternity.  What better scenes are there than from one's own life?

Instead of blocking out these scenes of yours and mine from our memories, from our consciousness, shriveling away from them in horror, let us drag them out, write them down, examine them.

Let us take a look back in time, into the journal of Samuel Pepys:

15 October 1663

Up; I bless God, being now in pretty good condition, but cannot come to make natural stools yet; and going to enjoy my wife this morning, I had a very great pain in the end of my yard when my yard was stiff, as if I strained some nerve or vein, which was great pain to me.

Poor Mr. Pepys couldn't enjoy his wife that day, but thanks to his keeping a journal, we may forever enjoy that day, and come, through reading him, to become him, and become each other—this is why we read and write.  I want you to get yourself a journal.  Right now.  Then come back here for your exercise (which I promise will not be the documentation of evacuations, attempted or successful).


 BEING

Depending on if you are a completionist or not, this journal exercise may take a while.  Write down your earliest memories, the environment in which you grew up; think from the perspectives of your parents, write down the stages of your life.  Come to where you are, where you want to be.  Should this journal be found a thousand years from now, it should be an honest representation of you.  This is to be the basis for your lifelong friend—your journal.  I suggest making a special section just for dreams. 

F. Scott Fitzgerald's advice to a beginning writer was that you only have your emotions to sell. Remember this.

Next in your journal, relive a childhood memory in which you experienced strong emotion: Joy, Trust, Fear, Surprise, Sadness, Disgust, Anger, Anticipation.  Write this experience out in story form, and make your readers identify with your emotions, experiencing them just as you did.

I have lost too much by losing, or rather by not having acquired, the note-taking habit.  It might be of great profit to me; and now that I am older, that I have more time, that the labour of writing is less onerous to me, and I can work more at my leisure, I ought to endeavor to keep, to a certain extent, a record of passing impressions, of all that comes, that goes, that I see, and feel, and observe.  To catch and keep something of life—that's what I mean.  -Henry James, Notebooks, Nov. 25, 1881

I never travel without my diary.  One should always have something sensational to read in the train.  -Oscar Wilde

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Aaron's WRITER'S TIDBITS - Exercise #1: First Sentences

This is the first post in a series intended to inspire writer's to write (especially myself).



In the Age of Augustus, the Roman poet Horace gave us writers a couple of excellent decrees, viz:  


1.  Carpe diem —  literally "pluck the day", more commonly, "seize the day"!

2.  In medias res — "into the middle of things".



First Sentences

Where to begin?  Why, if you will look at the first sentences of a few of your favorite tomes, you will find that most often the story begins in the middle of things.   Let us take a look at a few, shall we?  I shall; for truly, we will be mightily illumined for it.  Note the immediate decisions by the authors of point of view, setting, situation, geography, class and education of characters, story history, etcetera. 


At a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not wish to remember, there lived a little while ago a gentleman who are wont to keep a lance in the rack, an old buckler, a lean horse, and a swift greyhound.   -Don Quixote, Miguel de Cervantes


In the week before their departure to Arrakis, when all the scurrying about had reached a nearly unbearable frenzy, an old crone came to visit the mother of the boy, Paul.  -Dune, Frank Herbert


It will be neither fruitless nor idle, seeing we are at leisure, to recall for you the primary source and origin of our good giant Pantagruel, for I note that all fine historiographers have done likewise in their chronicles, not only those of the Greeks, Arabs and Ethnics but also the authors of Holy Writ, as Monsignor Saint Luke particularly, and Saint Matthew.  Pantagruel, Francois Rabelais


It happened during one of those prolonged and delightful evening parties we attended in the winter of 1841 at the palace of Princess Galitzin in Florence.  -Castle Eppstein, Alexandre Dumas


Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.  -Ulysses, James Joyce



I do not envy your workload if you start with Genesis 1, and I am certain it too begins in medias res.



WRITING EXERCISE


You will come to find that time and time over, the first sentence compliments the title.  The first sentence is the opening of the portal, the doorway, the shape of things to come.  One can't help but envision Mark Twain, Missouri Meerschaum in hand, a faint ember within, meditatively transmuting leaden language into gold.  It is he who most famously said the difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.

The exercise for you and I, dear reader, is to fashion five of our own first sentences for five different stories.  You can begin them in any way you wish—with dialogue, description, a narrative summary, a generalization, a reminiscent narrator.  That's not important.  The writing of them is important.  I suggest you write a sentence a day for the rest of your life.  Prepare a journal. or a specified file, or even use a voice recorder to capture your daily first sentences.

Here are mine (please feel free to share your own in the comments, as I would be most gracious and heartily enjoy reading them):

1.  Having claimed the summit of the Mount of the Bloody Serpent, the aeromancer spread himself upon a large flat expanse of granite, his eyes to the clouds, within which the nepheliads began the forming of his visions.  

2.  I see the smell of the ocean as I hear the dark watery thoughts of a neirid—nestled just below the water's surface, she is—and I am sick over the side.

3.  Airth loved her at first sight, knowing that she, bathed in the pale light of Europa, standing thoughtfully amongst the stars, was the manifest physical idealization of his desire; and how much more he was filled with hope, should it be Providence who stirred his passion legitimately—anyway, if not, feelings, after all, cannot be falsely felt; only can they be reaffirmed or redirected by time.

4.  What had she been but a quick jury-rigging upon the frail and delusional little vehicle that was his life—what was left but to repay her for those long winding miles together?

5.  Preparing for the night's descent, standing at the shore's stone arch, ancient sunken millieu; steady and silent as the deep current, lost shimmering baubles seined from the blue whirlpool bring streambed visions of Merfolk—their image, along with other creatures of lore, are contained in a living book shown to me at the approach of a great storm—understand the motion of water its trickling whispered.

- Aaron DeWeese