Be Beautiful

It’s deep within, that’s what they say

where no one can see

no one can touch

no one can hear.

But they can feel it right?

Or they’re supposed to anyway

that wonderous emotion that makes

us human and living beings.

Love and beauty

sorrow and hatred

joy and anger

each has its moment

But their main component is

Beauty,

love found in believing

the beauty of every soul

Sorrow consuming when

beauty has escaped us

after losing our confidence

and our connection to life.

Hatred burning because

we think we see beauty

in a fiery arena of superficiality

and meaningless survival.

Joy washing over us

after we’ve conquered a

great Wall and found

the beauty of being centered.

Anger breaking us

because we don’t comprehend

the beauty in forgiving

and the hope it brings.

Be in love.  Be beautiful.  Be U.

Invisible

the head down, no sight

lips sealed

aimless eyes

Everyday, the same way.

 

the waves lap, toes drown

numbed heart

swollen wounds

Everyday, the same pain.

 

the sun sets, she waits

night sky light

mirror of the soul

Everyday, wait to be.

the writing of Man

It’s curious, the study of the human race.  We call it by a scientific name, anthropology, literally the study of man.  Having studied anthropology for several years, it was fascinating to see the thoughts and scientific connections that could be made through anthropological research.  However, taking a break from it I began to realize something quite profound – anthropology isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  At least, not in its scientific sense.  Indeed, any social science is really the mad ravings of bored individuals who look at their fellow members of society and wonder, “Why on Earth do I have to deal with you?  Perhaps if I come up with a really valid, possibly measurable excuse for you, I can make it bearable, even subtlety make fun of it if I write a book.”  Dare you to prove me wrong!

What I am getting at here is the idea that anthropologists aren’t scientists because of some insanely high IQ and an ability to figure out the mathematical make-up of a human being in 5.2789 minutes (now forensic anthropologists, they’re the scientifically productive ones;).  They’re just people.  Observing.  People.  Now I propose to you, what other professions in which do we see that practiced, hmm?  What do you do every time you pick up a pen or tap at a keyboard?  Ho!  Look at that, you can now call yourself anthropologists!  Indeed, I’ve been pondering for awhile the similarities of this and I love it.  I bask in it!    Anthropology, the study of man, writing – it’s as simple as it gets.  When we write, we express our thoughts, feelings, experiences, beliefs, behaviors, and on and on and on.  We do this for the basic reason that we observe others and ourselves.  Thus, we are studying our fellow human beings.

Now I am not deriding the meticulous studies of many anthropologists that have unselfishly (or perhaps “selfishly” might be a better word) devoted their lives to studying cultures we might not even understand or know about today.  Anthropology, the study of culture, is near and dear to me for the reason that I find beauty in the differences mankind brings to every society.  Nonetheless, anthropology wasn’t around since the dawn of man (come on, admit, Neanderthals didn’t walk around observing Homo Erectus, pondering how they came to be, right?).  The practice developed over time as humans took note of each other, differences between hunting groups, weird religious beliefs that conflicted with their own, bizarre hairdos, senseless traditions…the list goes on.  Heck, the Bible (dare I say) is an anthropological work in of itself (I would argue the Torah is more accurate on that account as that’s where it was derived).  I mean talk about a preachy book, going on about who married who and whose son was whose and who owned this farm and this cattle.  God must have been having a real hay-day taking down those observations and notes!

Books are mere reflections of us, no matter what genre or what year they were written or what divinity they supposedly hold.  Someone has observed something at some point that made them think, “Now why on Earth would you do that?” or “Gee, this will make for a holler!”  Indeed, you’re probably thinking to yourself as you read this why I’m writing about observing other people writing about observing other people while your observing through the writing what sort of person I am.  Still with me?

So Anthropological Writers unite!  And take pride in the fact that no matter how you express it, you’re contributing to history and mankind’s culture:)

The Forgotten Art

Tap at hollowed buttons

without a thought.

Words of black and white

no color, no soul,

Lifeless.

Is there something lost?

Can’t remember

was it a spoken word,

lips parted and warm breath,

did you hear?

Maybe it’s been ten years,

maybe, maybe twenty,

does anyone remember?

This lost art that none can

glean.

Wander cyber halls

that cannot echo sounds

of life, or touch

Just the worthless vomit of

forgettable phrases

that start endless fights

and drive others to

Conform or be no one.

Strong hearts unwanted and

Thoughtful speech tossed to

oblivion.

Where has this lost art vanished?

Perhaps it is that no one

knows

its meaning or existence.

The human condition

to forget.

Blood of the Fallen~10

It was a hard trek through the woods at night.  Even with the lucien’s help and her tracker’s skills, Elliera was exhausted and spent.  Senior Tevkin, for his part, kept up with the pace not uttering a single word of agony.  It was because of him that Elliera did not complain.  He had been her mentor and now was her savior.  Whatever the Council of Nights had been planning, it probably did not involve just the pale man, but her and Senior Tevkin as well.  She shuttered remembering the nail scrapping screech that split the air and the single white feather that had been left.  What did it all mean?

Senior Tevkin was negotiating passage with a ferryman on the Ostram river, keeping his voice low.  With the position of the stars and moon, it looked to be about two in the morning, a time most would consider strange.  But he seemed satisfied enough with their explanation even though they had roused him from sleep.  It was a wonder that someone who possibly was the epicenter of gossip could be so secretive and understanding.  She watched as the conversation finally broke and Senior Tevkin made his way back to where Elliera and the lucien sat patiently by the river’s side.

“He said he’ll gladly give us passage, no questions asked.  We’ll be dropped off at Schaporf, about ten kilometers south of Daverne.  After that, the river gets too wide and unruly for ferries to navigate.  Gave him a couple dubs, though he tried to push them away.”

“Nice fellow,” Elliera added, “Did he say how long it would take?”

Senior Tevkin rubbed his eyes, “Oh, a few hours.  We’ll be there after sunrise.  Good timing, too, because we’ll have a ways to travel and I don’t want to be completing that journey at night.”

The ferryman gave them a soft smile as they boarded.  She wondered if he could see the weariness and fear behind their expressions.  She immediately attempted to veil her concerns and focus her thoughts elsewhere.  As the ferry began to move, she found comfort in the rolling, midnight waves of the river.  Like black velvet, she thought.  It was beautiful, a sweet lullaby of visual richness accompanied by the lap lap of the gentle waves.

Her eyelids began to droop.

“Wish I had a need for that.”

Elliera jumped, practically falling into the river.  She hurriedly glanced around.  Behind her was standing a dark figure silhouetted by the moon.  Oddly, the eyes dimly glowed as if they had a life of their own.

The figure stepped away from the light and came to crouch next to her.  Only then did she realize who it was.

“Y-you’re the man from the river.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, “Indeed.  And I thank you for tending to my wounds.  Though, I would have to say your council was not as readily helpful to me.”

Elliera shook her head, “I’m sorry.  I should have never brought you back there.  I…I didn’t know…”

He sat down next to the lucien and stroked his fur.  There was a long pause before he spoke again.

“I do not blame you for what has happened, Elliera, you are merely the fly stuck in the spider’s web.  And a gluttonous spider it is too-”

“Then, do you know the Council of Nights?”  She interjected.

“No, but I do suspect they are in league with some other people I am trying to avoid.”

The lucien gave a loud sigh and Elliera peered down at it, “Why did it follow me?”

The pale man smiled, “Because it believes you are worth protecting.  Creatures like this do not throw around their allegiance lightly, and it seems it has felt a bond with you.”

Elliera’s heart soared with that news,  her eyes sparkling.  Before she could hide her excitement, the pale man continued, “I do suppose that is good news for one such as yourself, as a Gardein.”

“How do you know so much about us?”  She frowned, and then added, “And how do you know my name?”

“I overheard it in the courtroom didn’t I?”  He chuckled and Elliera smiled uneasily.  “Like your Senior Tevkin, I study scripts and such as well.”

At the mention of her Senior, Elliera quickly glanced around for his presence.  In the shock of facing the pale man, she had forgotten about the ferryman and Tevkin.  She found him snugged underneath blankets at the helm, fast asleep and the ferryman was busy navigating.

“Worried?”

“No, not all,” she commented, feeling abashed that she might have offended him.  She finally asked the question that had been bothering her, “What brings you here?”

The pale man looked long at her.  He sighed, “I do not think that is an answer I can yet give you, Elliera Gardein.  However, I can give you my name so that you may stop thinking of me as the pale man.  You may call me Varen’ka.”

She blinked.  She was about to open her mouth to apologize when the pale-Varen’ka interrupted her, “No need for that, I take no offense.  It is merely the way I am and natural for you to take note of it.  It is the very first judgement we pass, is it not, what we see with the eyes?”

The Eighth Path~2

Jesphan straightened in the chair, his eyes locked with the man sitting opposite him.  Droegette, was his name, “Chop” Droegette.  A lowly creature.  Jeshpan despised doing any sort of business with him, but that was the way things had to be now.  It disappointed him that humankind would let scum like Droegette and his gang run rampant and take over cities.  His gang, “The Choppers” as they self-entitled themselves, were men with thumbs up their asses so to speak.  Morons, the lot of them, Jesphan thought to himself.  Unfortunately, dangerous morons.

Droegette twitched in his chair, his rat eyes moving from spot to spot.  The man could never hold a gaze.  At six feet, it was a wonder the man could be so skiddish, easily overshadowing Jesphan’s wiry figure by half a foot.  One of Droegette’s cronies had made a fatal mistake, however, in underestimating Jesphan’s stature.  Perhaps that was what it was, he thought sarcastically.

The Choppers were lounging about at hand and though Jeshpan knew he was about to be gipped in their deal, he would not dare to make a move.  They might look stupid, but stupidity in large amounts is hard to overcome.  So he sat coolly in the chair, enjoying the resplendent dome air that was filtered from outside.

“An uzi for ten kilos of this shit?”  Droegette tried to sound tough, but his voice always came out squeaky and high pitched.  Jesphan nodded.

Droegette spat on the ground, “Hyung, how much you think this bull crap is worth?”

One of the Choppers sitting in the corner thumbed his nose and shrugged, “Shit ain’t worth nottin’, Boss.”

Jesphan rolled his eyes inwardly.  He had no patience for pathetic games like this.  Quick and clean and to the point, that was how business should be.

“You think this is good ‘nough for the Aristo Brikkavanak?  You outta your mind, boy.  You’s gotta bring good shit here for us to give you such a gift.  For an uzi?”  Droeggette attempted to look condescending, but his round face made him look unsure, “You come back and bring us some good stuff and maybe then we talk.”

He started laughing in his weezing-smoke polluted way, spluttering a cough here and there.  The brainless hyenas joined in, shaking their heads in contempt for what they deemed to be a ridiculous ability to bargain.  In the raucous, Jesphan merely stood up, leaned toward the entrance and motioned for Niikam to come in.  His partner came in with sacks bursting at the seams, two in total.  The laughter died instantly.

Forgetting his previous condescending tone, Droegette’s eyes widened, “Where’daya get that?”

“Oh, just a little place off the way,” Jesphan brushed the exclamation aside, “So, we gotta deal?”

It took Droegette a split second to blink and then blurt an agreement.  Jesphan could always rely on that: Droegette’s impulsiveness.  Indeed, the “shit” that he was handing to them was just that: “shit.”  Whatever possessed someone to put this sort of powder into your body was beyond him, but the poor bastards were addicted to it.  And no one really knew what it was, where it came from, nor what it was supposed to be in terms of good quality.  It was like white gold to them.

Within five minutes, Jesphan and Niikam were ushered out of the door hurriedly, an uzi added to their gear.  Jesphan thrummed his fingers against the new weapon.  An automatic, that was tough to come by.  A grin passed over his face like a shadow.

Tears from a Pen

A poised pen brimming with ink,

as if it were the vessel of human emotion,

the dry paper laid down, the cold face of relationship

waiting to drink in the black tears with no remorse

It leaves no inky depth to be fulfilled,

each letter separate but joined and

only an echoing silence to swallow memories

lost and found.

Each stroke of the pen a quake of the heart to steady sorrow

a black melody leaking into a white abyss where

Time claims the pain to remember, to

savor it,

A masochistic mirror to reflect a ripped heart that

beats, keeps beating, keeps writing

only to gorge, to disgorge a bitter tune colored in

black and white.

The beauty of emotion sighs in its fulfillment

the black tears through a watery lens become nothing

more than whispers of what was of a stitched

rhythm.

It was all a Dream

Once upon a time there was a writer who thwacked away at the ivory keys, pounding out his thoughts in a dreary rhythm.  Tap, tap, tap.  Tappa, tap, tap.  And so the sound drifted through the glazed windows of his log home.  For him, words flowed out of his mind, through his fingers; for him, writing was as easy as pie.  There he remained in an old, slouched chair to compose his masterpiece instead of in a stuffy coffee shop because there’s no place like home, he thought. 

Except for the time that she stormed out and left him.  He had once been told that absence makes the heart grow fonder.  For a minute, the keys stopped, and he paused.  What lunatic had told him such nonsense?  It was as plain as the nose on his face that absence had made the heart grow colder.  What was that saying?  Oh, yes: Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no lies.  Indeed, he cursed!  Hardly a question had he breathed to only find out that her heart had been stolen by someone else.  He was at his wit’s end of what to do.  First it was denial, then shame, then frustration, and finally he was broken-hearted.  Alas, all is fair in love and war, he chided.

In the blink of an eye, the writer snapped up from his chair, rubbing his reddened eyes.  Down the hall he could hear the sizzle of breakfast and the soft humming of his love’s voice.  By Jove, he clutched his head, it was all a dream!

For many self-proclaimed excellent writers and other well-to-dos, the words, “It was all a dream,” make their skin itch like literary bugs nibbling their skin.  They cringe, shut their ears, scrunch their eyes, and look away, the proverbial death of good literature upon them.  But do we ever really consider what cliché truly means?  Do we understand its uses as a literary device, or even as a simple part of our culture?  Yes, the dictionary will tell you that a “cliché” is a stereotyped phrase that expresses common belief but has been overly used.  What a shame that we see it so black and white.  Literature is anything but definite.  If we take away its ambiguity, we take away the beauty and intensity of language!

Indeed, even gods of literature such as Shakespeare have phrases that have become obsolete or over used, but is that the author’s fault?  Or is that our fault?  “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” is arguably one of the most romantic lines (and I’m biased to hopeless romance) that has yet to be challenged by contemporary literature.  Are we to say that merely because we have heard over and over and over in conversation, media, other literature that we are to roll our eyes and think less of it?  What is wrong with writing the way we speak, or in a way that reflects our culture’s common phrases or beliefs?  I could write that his being obstinate in accepting his mistake was a case of the dancer blaming the stage.  How often has someone heard this phrase in America?  If you think it is an American cliché, you are sorely mistaken.  It is Indian.

Granted, the short story that I coughed up above is not glamorous, but it has a purpose and that purpose is to say that clichés are here to stay in our literary world, that they have functional uses, and that if we continue to think of clichés the way we do…well, guess what?  Pretty soon any phrase that is popular or common will be outdated or exasperated in any culture.  Don’t get me wrong, I strive for originality in my language and plot.  But human culture was not an individualistic phenomenon, it was collective and thus we think in very similar ways.  And yet again, I ask you: what is truly original?

The Eighth Path

“Jesphan.  Psst, Jesphaaann.”

Still he sat with his back turned, facing the decrepit city.

“Uh, Jesphan.”

Jesphan whipped around and his organge hazel eyes burned through him.  He could even feel the proverbial heat inflame his body.

“We should move out,” he weakly said, trying hard not to make contact with those flames.

Jesphan sat for a moment longer, his gaze locked on his companion as if he could penetrate the dark secrets hidden away.  Then, Jesphan merely tipped his head and moved for the path leading into the city.  He uttered a sigh and hastily moved after him, grabbing the bulking pack and clumsily shifting it onto his back.  Dust puffed up as their boots slapped the earth.  Jesphan slipped his face wrap up around his nose and mouth as the dust gathered in a sudden breeze.  There was nothing but dirt and dust around this struggling city stabilized by enormous walls of stone reinforced with metal.  They arced over into an open dome above the city, the top quarter reinforced quartz that filtered the blaring sun and shielded the city from the worst of dust storms.

Niikam had seen inside those walls only once, before he had partnered with Jesphan.  Jesphan, a name voiced in hushed tones of awe and mixed with unexplained fear.  He was the unknown.  The unknown stranger that wandered the land and somehow survived its monstrosities.  Niikam even doubted whether Jesphan was his real name.  In this city’s language, it translated as ”forgotten wanderer.”  That was the way every town liked it.  To forget that Jesphan had passed through.

He shook his head, both to remove the dust from his eyes and to clear his head.  Jesphan was an intimidating figure, no doubt, and Niikam found himself more than once trembling from the man’s stubborn silence and piercing gaze.  But Jesphan didn’t commit half the deeds most villagers put upon him.  Sure, they looted and robbed abandoned places when they needed supplies, but who didn’t?  In fact, Niikam had been a petty thief in another city far from the one they now approached before Jesphan took him in.  Niikam the Loose Hand, they used to call him.  He had seen the inside of a jail cell far too many times and cringed at the idea of ever having to face another.  Jesphan had taught him a new way of life, a life that involved passing from village to village, a drifter.  And that supplies could come from other places rather than people’s pockets.  People might remember you, they might not.  That was fine by Niikam.  No one needed to identify his face, he didn’t want trouble anymore.

Even in the few years that they had been together, Niikam had seen his partner save others from misfortune.  Gangs also roamed the desolate lands outside of the cities and those on the outskirts were ignored by authorities.  It was gang rule and that was one thing Jesphan did not stand by.  He might be a mysterious stranger that took what he needed and lived without any connections to the city, but he did not believe in taking people’s lives or dignity.  He had watched on one such occasion, late at night, when a gang had happened upon a lone farmhouse where a mother and daughter waited vigil for the father.  Instead, these gruesome men happened upon the house, malice and savage thoughts clear in their eyes.  Jesphan had waited patiently in the shadows until the group had descended upon the house.  Niikam, out of fear, had sidled back deep behind a dead tree and when he had turned to see if anything had happened, his companion was gone.  There was a short flash of light and a low, bang, almost like thunder, that rattled the window panes.  Then, Jesphan had stepped out and walked past into the plains with no acknowledgement to the mother and daughter or to Niikam.  He had thought about asking Jesphan in regards to what had happened, but thought better of it.  Something about his partner’s stoic expression bent him to silence.

Niikam looked up nervously at the approaching city gates.  Guards in tan, bulky armored suits stood with angry steam guns propped in their arms.  He shivered at the sight of the weapons.  He had felt the singe of those once and that was enough.  Niikam briefly glanced at his companion as they made a straight line for the closed gates.  Jesphan looked ahead, his eyes focused and unwavering.  What had the city heard of this stranger?  What would be their reactions to a company such as theirs?  Some cities were willing to accept outsiders for the right price, but others…Well, by the look of those steam guns, Niikam was not about to make any hasty decisions.  He side-stepped behind his companion, trying to hide his lanky frame behind the man’s stouter figure.

They would find out soon enough.

The Genre of Invisible Boundaries

It’s called creative writing for a reason, right?  A writer should be able to compose freely whatever spontaneous scenarios come to his/ her mind, particularly in genres of fantasy and science fiction.  Let’s be honest with ourselves, this is not really the case.  How often have students run into the problem with a teacher in wanting to write fantasy but have been talked down from it?  Perhaps it should be called vapid writing, instead.

Indeed, it seems that we follow invisible wires that separate us from the final frontier and beyond.  There is a valid point in that ideas should have some ground to reality, but perhaps that is merely our uneasiness with ambiguity.  It’s like floating in water, in darkness, with no reference point for a guide and your mind wonders.  We feel uncomfortable because old ideas transpire into something new and compelling.  There are ideas that penetrate our minds though we would never utter a word or write a single letter for all that it is worth because we remain constrained by society’s fear of the unknown.

Take for instance the idea of the steam punk sub-genre that is often associated with settings in the far past, such as the Victorian era, while containing visions of how the future would have been conceived.  In some part of our mind, this combination makes sense: we can accept that there is some trigger of reality and thus we associate steam-punk with either setting.  However, try to combine steam punk with a different genre or setting, say something like Middle Earth or anything with wizards and the world seems to implode on us.  The concept of steam punk is limited to its conception in the late 1980s because it is mostly associated with history and oddly configured technology.  We can see fantasy mix with steam punk in more of manga situations rather than in novels.  Why?  Because we cannot cross that comfortable line of what can be combined and what cannot, what is appropriate and what crosses the invisible boundary.

Next time you set down to write, let your mind do the work, let creativity drip from the pen and don’t hesitate to make even the most absurd situations or characters.  After all, creativity is the absence of limitations.