fabergemonkey

the threadbare man

The threadbare man stares into the clouds, the sun-cast texture of their serenity unnoticed. He looks into their depths, beyond their shadows and highlights into the impenetrable whiteness within.

He stands there, the wind whipping past him, wrapping his solitude around him so tightly that he almost cannot breathe. He stands, the exactitude of his life a threadbare cloak, a tattered shell brittle and lonely, clasping the emptiness of his self.

He stirs not at all, a statue of forgotten dreams, of hopes drowned in the dust of long-shed tears. He stands and stares and barely breathes, barely feels, barely is. He stands, bent and weighed down by the nothingness of his life, broken and crushed and ground to distrust.

The threadbare man stands. He stares and wonders at that he has the strength to do this little thing, and yet cannot take a step, a single step into tomorrow, out from the faded chains of a past and a present into something more and something brighter; and he wonders why a single threadbare tear does not roll down his threadbare cheek, containing the last essence of his threadbare life, away into oblivion and clouds and the inklings of what once might have been and what once was.

photo profile

I don’t often touch on my photography – I recently joined the SevenbyFive photographic community, as set up by David Cleland of flixelpix and here is my profile from that site, which goes some way to explaining my passion for this area of creative endeavour.

the much butchered nano novel

Inspiration strikes at the oddest of times.

Today I was sitting in a meeting reviewing technical requirements for the main software tool that we use at work, and during a lull in the proceedings (in other words, my attention span) I started to doodle a mindmap of my much butchered nano novel.

Unfortunately, up until this point, I had always been stymied by the exact nature of the main opposing protagonist, and how the two main storylines linked and influenced each other.

Out of nowhere came the answers. Those blank spaces and scribbled, underlined and encircled question marks seemed to inspire something in me, and before I knew it the protagonist, the threat, the obstacles that my heroes would be fighting against, all existed. They were there, manifest and extant.

The parallel thread now has a proper root in the first (it always did, but now it is inextricably entwined) and the influences are easy to see.

More importantly I now see how I can sustain the tone and the magic of those brief passages of prose from the original effort that I was most pleased with. I can begin to write with true direction and the characters are becoming more defined and more real within my mind and imagination.

Now, if only I could take my netbook into future meetings and do something of real interest…

scriptfrenzy

The question is, dear reader, do I script frenzy or not?

November is all too far away for me to once again enjoy the trials, tears, tantrums and over-whelming weariness of NaNoWriMo (not forgetting the joy, elation and discombobulation), so ScriptFrenzy does offer something in the way of a nicely placed at the right time of the year challenge. I mean, its only 100 pages in 30 days.

Ahem.

Except I have never written a script (but that never stopped me before), nor have I a story (see previous).

I believe I shall have a think, and if any of you foolish-foolish-intrepids decide to do have a go, then let me know. I may well be joining you.

the art of disassociation

I am currently reading Susan Sontag’s On Photography and am finding it very interesting indeed.

One of the themes that is explored is that photography is, by its very nature, disassociative from its subject. She argues, quite compellingly, that in the quest for the image one removes oneself from the activity(ies) that are the subject of the photograph and rather than being a participant, one becomes an observer and commentator both.

A little while back I was listening to Radio 4′s excellent the Write Stuff (or was it … never mind, I can’ remember) where an author was talking about writing. One of the most interesting points he made was that once you had made the conscious decision to become a writer, everything you experienced from that point was viewed as potential material for writing. The world, instead of being a place in which you exist, becomes a place of material.

Writing and photography (and any art, arguably) requires a level of disassociation from the environment around the artist. Everything is observed, viewed, noted, photographed, remembered, weighed, considered and stored. The act of involvement becomes one of consideration, the act of remembrance becomes one of creativity. As writers and photographers we take what we have experienced and known, draw upon it, link it with experimentation and fantasy, and from this create something new (if not to the world then at least to ourselves).

Ten years ago I took up photography and now, invariably and subconsciously, I view the world through the eyes of a photographer. Since I have restarted writing, after a long absence, I have also begun to view it as such. The world has morphed from being an experience to being a potent source of  inspiration and creativity.

The act of taking a photograph disassociates you from the scene. Consciously you begin to interpret the activity, forming and forcing it to fit the constraints of your creativity. The camera pressed against your eye defines your view on the world and, by its nature, removes you from it. You remove yourself from it by the act.

Writing is a solitary function, requiring a level of solitude, both physically and mentally, to allow that process to take place. Writing forces your eye downwards, obscuring the world with your preoccupation. More than that, when you are out and about, you will no doubt find yourself cataloguing conversations and situations, wondering how you will best use them when you come once again to keyboard or pen. Both are forms of disassociative observation, one more immediate than the other.

Do we lose something in this? Perhaps we lose that spontaneity of experience, without ulterior motive. Perhaps we become to considered, too intellectual, too bound by our art. This is the nature of humanity and specialisation, that we consider the world in light of our endeavours.

We, publicly or privately, practise our art, removed and yet part of the collective whole. We become more aware, and by that awareness become less involved; we become more observational, more judgmental and more critical. The world around is is weighed, and that which is worthy is photographed or written about. That which isn’t… isn’t.

Yet there is a prize for this disassociation. Like the shaman we place ourselves at a crossroads, we take on the burden of being the medium between worlds and interpret them accordingly. Becoming a writer or photographer, like any artistic endeavour, is a choice that we alone can make. It defines us and our world, just as we define ourselves and the world with it.

Cross-published at www.josekilbride.com