tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2557473211961303372024-03-13T15:41:15.101-05:00Insanity Comes NaturallySeriously.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.comBlogger205125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-72965039372733831322013-12-16T13:11:00.002-06:002013-12-16T13:11:51.902-06:00Announcing - After exactly six months of indecision, having hopefully waited long enough to prevent anyone from actually seeing this, I am happy to release the the new and little-improved:
About the Platen
Suitably irregular and haphazard posts to follow at the above link.
Thank'ee.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-41227498415893840712013-07-16T08:39:00.000-05:002013-07-16T08:40:48.055-05:00The Turn of a PageThere are any number of reasons for making a change. In case you haven't noticed in the course of reading this, the link to the header for this page has expired - long expired, like the full gallon of milk in our fridge when Libby went off of lactose - and I have yet to do anything about it. I suppose I could recreate it, but a switch in computers between now and the original means my programs Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-84717931984657421562013-04-18T13:17:00.001-05:002013-04-18T13:17:44.638-05:00For Want of Wonder.
When all my days are ending
And I have no song to sing,
I think that I shall not be too old
To stare at everything;
As I stared once at a nursery door
Or a tall tree and a swing.
Wherein God's ponderous mercy hangs
On all my sins and me,
Because He does not take away
The terror from the tree
And stones still shine along the road
That are and cannot be.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-73660468235875282362013-03-23T10:55:00.002-05:002013-03-23T10:55:50.480-05:00And Poets Shall Have Flames Upon Their Heads
I need to dust my bookshelves.
There's a good inch-and-a-half of space between the edge of each shelf and the row of paper vertebrae - an inch and a half that is now gray instead of the original cheap black finish. A quick sweep of my finger begins to restore the former glory; how quickly a few strokes of a damp paper towel would finish the job!
I procrastinate. I have procrastinated for Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-11005992118465151172013-01-03T21:39:00.002-06:002013-01-03T21:39:57.395-06:00More Satisfying Than the Solutions of Man As it is the season for new-year posts on the subject of readings, past and future, I thought I might squeeze out one of my own and perhaps pave the way for actually posting a few times this year. I was fairly organized last year, planning a monthly allotment of books that included an old favourite, a new potential favourite, and something of substance/classic.
It was at times a frenzied race toAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-79308670842882515612012-10-26T09:26:00.000-05:002012-10-26T09:27:14.604-05:00Do You Never Laugh, Miss Eyre?
from pinterest [cropped]
When I was perhaps as young as nine or ten, I attempted to read Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre to very unsatisfactory results. I had already pored many times over a severely abridged children's version of the tale, which contained many illustrations of an odd sort of watercolour-meets-oil surrealism. I was familiar with the skeletal plot, held in a state of mixed Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-6554168347452279752012-10-22T16:48:00.000-05:002012-10-22T17:00:06.831-05:00“There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people.”
Over the last several days, Jenny and Abigail and I have at intervals treated with a lively contempt various cliches of modern literature. One of the many mentioned was that of the hero or heroine discovering that he or she possesses the capacity to tame and ride a mythical monster, usually a dragon. I am not saying that in every case this cannot be done originally or sensibly; merely thatAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-9671015134602458562012-09-03T20:31:00.000-05:002012-09-04T15:57:48.071-05:00"I think it was the shape of his coat-tails," he said.
Ms. Rachel, over at The Inkpen Authoress, was kind enough to think of me and ask me a series of questions, a sort of interview-a-la-bloggue. There's nothing like a quiet little chat over tea, and this time I did most of the talking - which was perhaps a little over-stimulating for my dialoguical brain, but terribly fun nevertheless. I hope to return the favor and have her muse a little on Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-63017822894428972952012-08-31T18:45:00.003-05:002012-08-31T18:46:41.659-05:00Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast!<!--StartFragment-->
courtesy of deviantart.com
This piece features two of my favourite characters to play with from The Brew; because every misadventuring hero ought to have the acerbic wit of a spinster aunt to keep him steady.
I wrote this quite a while ago, which is funny because between the visit to the seaside and the aunt being named 'Jasmine' - well, there's a lotAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-59129009085612129882012-08-14T11:27:00.003-05:002012-08-14T16:15:55.899-05:00Far-Flung Echoes of Long-Forgotten TalesI'm in the process of packing up and moving across town. This means dragging out every article of everything that I own and deciding whether to take it or leave it. Among the rubble behind my bed was a packet of letters and scribbles, some of them pages taken from journals that I have since (apparently) discarded. I don't know why I kept them, but among these I found stories and notes from eventsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-71058208587136650982012-08-10T17:40:00.001-05:002012-08-10T17:41:03.866-05:00Figs for Thought
Then the word of the Lord came to me: "Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel: Like these good figs, so I will regard as good the exiles from Judah, whom I have sent away from this place to the land of the Chaldeans. I will set my eyes on them for good, and I will bring them back to this land. I will build them up, and not tear them down; I will plant them, and not pluck them up. I will give themAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-15378542146116400242012-08-09T17:11:00.000-05:002012-08-09T17:24:12.496-05:00Dusting of the Pen: A Few Pale Threads of Varying Ambiguity
(these paragraphs are not chronologically or necessarily connected in any way)
He looked at the little weapon, shining with all the marks
of carefully crafted deadliness. It had been gifted him when he took his oath
as an inspector, and he had sworn to use it in the service of bringing
criminals to justice. “I have taken vows to my King, Inspector," he said a
little hoarsely, and the Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-3561140934067599862012-08-09T00:17:00.000-05:002012-08-09T17:25:03.883-05:00A Nice Derangement of EpitaphsI think, after such an undeniably long absence from my own shabby art of blogging, that a bit of rambling and ranting on the miseries of the Dread Writer's Block'd'arts would be justifiable. But I'm not going to talk about that; instead, I'm going to talk about why I'm not talking about that, and thus probably spend more time talking about it than I would if I weren't not Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-30613268614515688052012-04-25T10:02:00.000-05:002012-08-09T17:36:32.137-05:00Hindsight.
Do you remember the times spent in hunger,
the soul-spots that nothing could fill?
I made breakfast with my youngest brother;
he laughed when the eggs took a spill.
Do you remember the era of long nights
that churned out despair like a mill?
We used the old tales for starlight;
the bright moon was spun on a quill.
But surely you think of the grey times,&Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-86934791288383290682012-04-07T21:19:00.000-05:002012-08-09T17:26:09.525-05:00Only a Sentence in the Story
He came back.
After that brutal Friday, and that long, quiet Saturday, he came back.
And that one intake of breath in the tomb changes everything. It changes the very reason I drew breath today and the way I move about in this world because I believe he's coming back again. The world has gone on for more than two millennia since Jesus' feet tread the earth he made. What wouldAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-31331357046228144362012-03-30T16:56:00.000-05:002012-08-09T17:26:40.722-05:00Scribbled Snippets: Mad as a March Harrowing
“Preparing to sacrifice myself to the imbecilic causes of society,” replied Archie, his face like that of the man who discovered hope’s sepulchre. -Beginnings
Their eyes met, and he found no sympathy in the other’s gaze, only a singular earnestness and clarity of understanding. The look was like the statement that followed: “A providential stalemate, I call that. Not that there is nothing to Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-59354081857658657552012-03-08T17:33:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:27:08.156-05:00Of Chains and Cells and Citadels
I wrote a letter to a friend in prison last night. He is not a martyr. His crime was not honourable. And I did not know what to say to him.
Oh, I found words in the end; not for nothing am I a writer, and writing in spite of a loss for words has become something of a bad habit. I did my best to speak to him as a brother; I told him I Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-85267990480415582582012-02-22T20:57:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:36:51.720-05:00A Pleasant Inheritance: Favourite Things
Jenny and Abigail, having formulated very beautiful lists of their own, inspire and compel. And I... resist? Never! Besides, I promised Jenny.
"The man's cub is mine, Lungri - mine to me!"
It ought never fail to blow my mind, especially looking at this little pile of treasure that I have composed of my life's storehouses, that all we need is Christ and still God gives us so Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-6436373998142865832012-02-22T11:12:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:36:19.362-05:00Beautiful People: February Edition!It's been a while since I pulled one of these out of my hat, and it's February. (Reason to blog #346: It allows one to state the obvious and feel like one has Said Something. And there aren't nearly that many reasons to blog.)
darjeeling falcon
(see: pretentious rhubarb)
photo courtesy of imdb.com
1. If your character could be played by any actor, who would it be? Stephen Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-78426930051179888182012-02-15T12:37:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:28:26.471-05:00G stands for Gnu
whose weapons of Defence
are long, sharp, curling Horns,
and Common-sense.
To these he adds a Name
so short and strong,
that even Hardy Boers pronounce it wrong.
The Pious people of Pretoria say,
"Come, let us hunt the - "
Then no more is heard
but sounds of Strong Men struggling with a word.
Meanwhile, the distant Gnu with gratefulAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-13264936829597027882012-02-13T21:53:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:28:55.465-05:00And the World Comes Clear (O My Soul)
Written because I did write that blessed blog entry, because I do habitually talk to myself (though not quite so much of the chess game in A Bug's Life), and because Audrey Assad is fabulous, and so is Jenny.
"Do you find much has changed in a year?"
An unspoken question, plainly put by the pair of frank green eyes that met mine, hung in the sleepily talkative air Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-13399154512702541572012-01-25T22:09:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:29:40.450-05:00The Wandering Heart of Things That Are
I will be a year older, and wiser, though I daresay not prettier, tomorrow.
All in a day.
How do birthdays manage it?
Annually, too!
At any rate, in keeping with predictable things, here is Chesterton. 'Tisn't the whole poem
- which I highly recommend -
-and which isn't that long -
- but these are my favourite lines.
(And furthermore, becauseAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-39253598291612900882012-01-22T23:23:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:37:11.406-05:00Earthly Stories with Heavenly Meanings
[from Heaven on Earth, Thomas Brooks; ch. 2 (5)]
Ah, Christians, tell me, do not those holy influences, those spiritual breathings, those divine in-comes, that you meet with in ordinances, make your souls cry out with David, As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. My soul thirsteth for God, even for the living God: when shall I come and appear beforeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-75627177864017952142012-01-13T18:08:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:30:25.248-05:00"The aim of a mystery story, as of every other story and every other mystery, is not darkness but light."
Another excerpt, because I haven't much brains for anything else and I feel badly for leaving the dust to collect so long as I have already.
This is further along in the story than even I have gotten, so you may ask your 'why?' and your 'wherefore?' but I may not be able to answer, whether I have a will to or no. I hate giving things away this early, but Chesterton stabbed me Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255747321196130337.post-10636963700693406562011-12-24T12:54:00.000-06:002012-08-09T17:30:49.122-05:00Christmas Poem
by G.K. Chesterton (whom did you expect?)
There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.
For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06313645499238119115noreply@blogger.com4