Creating a Mess from Mayhem

In one of my off line journals I recently decided to find the courage and strength to write about my history with depression. I managed to write just three or four pages and chose to write no more.

That was it, all those years covered in a few pages and finished with a full stop, that chapter of my life was at an end and I saw no reason to breathe life into all those old emotions by dissecting my past.

I destroyed a diary where my depressed mind had poured forth all manner of bullshit while I failed to comprehend my life at that time. These were words which haunted me for so long I have now decided to let them rest, for here, exposed, are the final remnants of my broken mind.

I cant expect anyone to make any sense of this mess I have created from mayhem. It’s not supposed to make any sense.

This is my form of Closure.

Anne Harrison 30.11.15

Making Sense from Senselessness

It has crossed my thoughts currently that the work I have presented here for anyone to ponder over does not exactly fit into any set genre.

This is amusing as prior to the Creative Writing Course, I only ever wrote Fantasy tales. The characters had become close companions of mine, some had existed since around 1988 and throughout that time I’ve seen my fair share of Births, Marriages, Deaths, Conspiracies, Wars, Reincarnation, Time travel, Dimension hopping, Tattoos, Cigars, Affairs, Tragedy’s, Betrayals, Work, Addictions, Murder and Love. The lives of my characters have ever been far from dull but I have always used the same names, their faces are firmly imprinted within my mind, their voices, body language, gestures and such, all as individual as my neighbors in reality.

So why did I break away from these guys? Why are they left in writing limbo land? Why has my writing ventured off into different styles, genres and voice?

Genre can define who we are, our choice of music, the films or shows we watch, books we read and even clothes we wear can all be categorized and we find ourselves connected to like minded individuals. Yet this can also leave us very narrow minded in our tastes, a few years ago I (personally) would never have listened to Jazz, total metal head through and through, metal til I die… Roahhhhhhhh!! Yes, indeed *ahem*…

It would appear that the course, not only drew me away from my beloved characters, but blew my mind wide open in various more ways. I’ve been to the ballet, seen Shakespearean plays, been to gigs without knowing the bands material in advance. Now, I can listen to other genres of music freely without contempt and broaden my horizons within the arts quite drastically. This is but a stepping stone upon my journey, for I know there is far more out there to explore and I’m just scratching the surface of rediscovery.

My characters are still within my mind, occasionally they like to come out to play, to cause chaos and mayhem. Their adventures locked up inside my brain, like some door of illusion I can step through this door and fully submerse myself in their realm. Just not as often as I used too…

I am no longer defined by old self imposed limitations, I enjoy exploring new paths to follow, of cause, this generally means I end up quite lost. As my dip into poetry proved to be quite a labyrinth of creative exploration, but that adventure can wait until another day.

For now I shall leave you with the rough draft of my course overview. Anne I never got to finish this piece, but that doesn’t matter because it has found a place a purpose here, to accompany this afternoons musings.

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Exploring Character through Costume

Anne Harrison 26.11.15

 

Adventures into the Unique Realm of a Vivid Imagination

Writing which never got submitted… Nearly… Ever so closely nearly submitted, really actually very nearly submitted as an assignment… 

First Daft Draft Animals Emails and then it developed into:

~*~

Welcome to The Zoo of Remarkable Ridiculousness 

An exploration into the amazing and unrealistic facts of marvellous creatures around the world. Originally created as a Facebook series which ran over a few weeks with the suggestions of readers as basis for the animals covered in the mini bio blogs.

Introduction

It is a widely unknown made-up fact that our world overlaps the land of make believe. A realm of quirky fantasy and dark mysteries. Most of us (Humans) are blissfully unaware of the unseen as we go about our mundane day to day shenanigans, however our animal companions are more in tune with this world between the veils. As such it feels rather fitting that we begin out adventure with a swift visit to ‘The Zoo of remarkable Ridiculousness’ where we can dip into the unique and fabricated spoofs about an interesting range of beautiful animals.

~*~

Inside The Zoo of Remarkable Ridiculousness

*Ahem* this section is possibly best read in the voice of David Attenborough …

As we explore the Zoo together, we shall learn three curious ‘facts’ about each of the wee critters we shall visit, may I remind readers not to feed the delusions, they are very naughty and greedy so the guardians of the mind have put them on a diet.

Thank You.

~*~

The first animal upon our tour is the beautiful and mysterious Aye-Aye:

Astounding Aye-Aye Fact #1

Aye-Ayes are tiny mythological creatures who dwell within the gusmet of giants. A giant with a happy Aye-Aye in his gusmet will declare fe-fi-fo-fum most proudly. However a faulty Aye-Aye will result in a half-hearted fe-fi-fo-thimble… Which is not very frightening at all. This goes to prove the importance of the Aye-Aye.

Amazing Aye-Aye Fact #2

Aye-Ayes are huge Jimi Hendrix fans, which clearly explains their fluffy little faces. At midnight under the light of a fool moon, Aye-Ayes can be seen recreating their own Woodstock… Woolstock!

Curious Aye-Aye Fact #3
Ducks are Aye-Ayes natural enemy. Ever since the king of ducks attempted to gate-crash Woolstock, wearing a dog faced bill mask, the King fled with the Aye-Ayes holy relic: The fender strat of remarkableness…

~*~

Following on from the Aye-Aye, we come to the magnificent Poodle Moth:

Tremendous Poodle Moth fact #1

Our fluffy Poodle Mothy friends actually have three nose holes! It’s true! Their extra nose is for their very favourite treat, marmalade… Which they horde in their snibberly-sok… This unique internal organ transforms marmalade into fine glittery whiskers, which makes their wool so baby soft…

Mysterious Poodle Moth Fact #2

It is widely believed these Hobbit sized critters…originate from Shangri-La but they are in actuality from a lesser known star in the Aquila system…

Dispelling the myths Fact #3

We know these particular marine animals have a skill at making movies, however it is a little known fact that baby Poodle Moths are born with water wings instead of webbed toes!

~*~

I bid you restrain your excitement as I introduce you to the Potoo:

Fabulous Potoo Fact #1

The Potoos national past time is feudia darts, which uses the quills of the humina worm as darts…

It used to be golf, but seeing as Potoos have an irrational fear of Alice Cooper, this had to be forsaken…
However, some brave or foolish Potoos, (usually teenagers who dare each other) still venture onto the golf course…
Potoos and Alice Cooper are rarely seen in the same photograph!

Infamous Potoo Fact #2

A Norwegian Potoo called Cecil Lacey the Third was rumoured to have turned down the role of Marvels Iron Man, which would have made him the highest grossing Potoo in Hollywood, in favour of continuing his research into quantum physics.
Sadly Cecil vanished into a black hole shortly afterwards…

Disgusting Potoo Fact #3
Potoo wee-wee smells exactly the same as dolphin tears!

~*~

Heralding from the dark and dangerous depths of Yorkshire, I present to you the one and only Dumbo Octopus:

Stupendous Dumbo Octopus Fact #1

Dumbo Octopus feathers are prized treasures which are highly sought after by mermaids who use them as a form of currency…

Maddening Dumbo Octopus Fact #2

The intriguing Dumbo Octopus is a mysterious little critter. Said to be cause behind Lovecrafts’ madness, these sneaky buggers nibble toes at night causing brilliant and inspirational ideas in the form of nightmares…

Famous Dumbo Octopus Fact # 3

The Dumbo Octopus are well known for writing all of Tom Jones’s greatest hits.
Despite the language barrier between Wales and Yorkshire, these industrious little fellas have taken the music industry by storm…
But! What happened in Vegas, stays in Vegas…

~*~

Ta-Da! ~ Enjoy the utter Randomness!

Anne Harrison 25.11.15

~*~

Recycling the Same Old Shit

  • “You know how I know it’s the end of the world? Everything already been done. Every kind of music’s been tried. Every kind of government’s been tried, every fucking hairstyle, bubble gum flavors, you know, breakfast cereal. What are we going to do? How are we going to make another thousand years? I’m telling you, man, it’s over. We used it all up.” – Max. (Strange Days 1995)

 

Are there any new ideas anymore? The cinemas are full of reboots, old films remade with fresh faces and different crews, putting their own twists on old (or not so old) classics. This is nothing new Dracula, for example, has been re-told so many times since the first film version of Nosferatu in the 1920’s right up to Dracula Untold 2014. Yet before it ever graced the silver screen it was a book, a single story which has spun off so many variations of the same tale in various mediums over the years, that it feels as immortal as the Count himself.

Retelling stories is nothing new, it’s far older than Bram Stoker and can be traced right back to tribal cultures who use stories to teach their children about their heritage. (Please refer to someone really clever who can tell you more about this kinda shit) This telling and re-telling of stories is part of human nature.

So they’ve remade Point Break! People will complain but I’m looking forward to it, the stunts are wilder, politics are different and special effects will all add to a modern production of a single classic action movie.

Why are we always taught the same books in literature? Why always Shakespeare and Dickins? People complain about a new version of Point Break, yet flock to Hamlet because it is performed by Benedict Cumberbatch. I cannot answer this question, for I do not have an answer. I enjoy the re-boots as much as the originals, sure I find points of comparison, but that is unavoidable when re-telling an existing story.

There are plenty of new material out there, new characters, new tales and new writers. They just need seeking out and sharing, so these beautifully talented persons may find their place amongst the classics.

As part of the Creative Writing course, we were given the assignment to re-write a classical story within 3000 words (ish) but written from a different characters perspective. This was not the only copy-cat piece of writing from the course, but I shall leave other examples for another day. For this was by far the most enjoyable homework task that I ever threw myself with glee and utter love for the original.

I present to you today my humble version of HP Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu, written from the perspective of Cthulhu itself…

Anne Harrison 24.11.15

 

The Call

There are those who believe that I sleep in some death like slumber, dreaming through the aeons, a fictitious dormant threat, that mankind has all but forgotten about save for tales in dusty books, expressed by an alcoholic author. One of my favourite pets, alas my mind crushed his, fiction, reality, his reality and mine merged together in a stew of madness, leaving him on the fine edge of sanity, finally destroying him entirely.

For such glimpses into my realm, which tediously overlaps the ordinary, to dip ones toe into the murky diseased sub-universe that I rule, shall cost one their sanity, for the human mind is a fragile beast, placid by the mundane, stressed by the insignificant, oblivious to what they fail to see and ignorant to what they fail to understand. Dismissing my existence as the creation of a twisted mind and that is how I choose to let these humans regard me.

I dwell within a realm, between realms, awaiting a time where the stars align and I can rise and consume this universe and the meagre planets which spin therein. There are those who believe that my aeons are spent asleep, to dream throughout time in a permanent state of hibernation. Still? Silent? Alone?

These assumptions are inaccurate, a misleading fable, fabricated by my loyal herd, for as long as my words grace the lips of my devotees, as long as my chant dances upon their tongues, I shall never truly, totally slumber…

“Ia! Ia! Fhtagn!”

You see in reality, in ‘my’ reality, my time, nay, my life is spent in a permanent state of observation, tis no sleep I truly dwell within, no dreams from a subconscious mind but an internal focus upon the outside world.

I watch, I wait and at times I call…

Such as a series of events which took place in 1925, recorded by my pet and discarded (or admired) as fiction. Personally I believe that this saga of my call should have been recorded as they transpired, starting with William Channing Webb, some forty-eight years prior. Though to be fair to my precious pet, I shall remain loyal to his script.

You need to understand that my ‘call’ is far more than a verbal cry out for acknowledgment; it is far more subtle and effective. More of a mental intrusion upon the minds of those who have merely brushed against the fragile hint of my existence, those minds, after I have toyed with them, are never the same again, their lives corrupted by the truth that cannot be unseen, unheard, or even comprehended.

First there was the sculptor, a young man of promising talent until my mental tendrils reached out and burrowed into his sub consciousness, infecting his dreams with disjointed visions of my domain exposing a timeless horror that only his skilled hands could translate in macabre still images, crafted in the medium of his desire, bringing into form the image of the very nightmare of mankind.

Known simply as ‘The Horror in Clay’.

His sanity, I found was too fragile to remain intact, yet tasted so sweet as I mentally violated his dreams, savouring his psychotic anguish as he descended into madness. However, before he was institutionalised my dreamer spread my tale, like any loyal subject, even though he was unaware of my silent demands the disturbing images which plagued his dreams compelled him to reach out to another and thus my legend creeps into the next mind, intrigue and curiosity are the tools which I unlock the doors of perception deep within the most primitive part of the human brain, dripping fragments of information, subtle hints and synchronicity.

So Henry Anthony Wilcox unwillingly drew one George Gammell Angell, Professor Emeritus of Semitic Languages in brown University, Providence, Rhode Island into the fold. An intellectual mind I find to be far more substantially delicious than the creative mind, for our precious Henry crafted the images from his nightmares where I had carefully and deliberately induced ancient alien hieroglyphics to tease and entice one of enhanced wisdom. His horrific clay reliefs, though clearly of no ancient forgotten race, it encased within its slick walls just enough to feed the curious nature of our Professor and like a willing servant he embarked upon a long painstaking focus of research, taking artwork into further investigation, consuming him, just as I had consumed Wilcox’s mind.

The artist, it appeared, was of no further use to me having served his purpose, created my terrible duplicate, by seeking help he had perfectly played his role and now I had a new disciple to follow up the threads I provided. I released Wilcox from my servitude, though after a month of horrific nightmares and a subsequent hospitalisation for mental exhaustion, I doubted he would ever be ‘normal’ again. For once I have bruised the psyche forever shall I have a claim in your life.

Professor Angell spent long arduous hours attempting to translate the language of the old ones, I respected his intellect and from my never sleeping slumber kept a dark eye on his progress, spoon feeding him fragments of the puzzle without ever exposing the full picture. He collected newspaper clippings, all relating to the period of Wilcox’s madness. Storms and wild weather reported in normal temperate climate zones, insanity, murder, inhuman acts committed by those who claimed to be self-medicated craving punishment. Mysterious vanishings, sometimes right before a loved one’s very eyes, un-natural curious events throughout the world, throughout the course of a month, my pet Professor amassed all this information. Taking his first glimpse into the dark foreboding dominion that is my reality.

My call during this period particularly affected those of more native cultures, I had a skill at clawing into the mentalities of tribal remnants from old traditions, had anyone at the time actually collated these disturbances, those which dwelt within brick walls may have realized the true threat of the primitive.

I also adore coincidence, as the humans called it; I prefer to see coincidence as an extortion of my will. Those I have touched, I will claim!

As it was, we has graced each other’s attention before, the good Professor and myself, in 1908 my existence was first introduced to his attention, Wilcox’s clay relief was not the first time the professor had laid eyes upon my dreadful visage.

Let ‘The Tale of Inspector Legrasse’ be known.

The American Archaeological Society held its annual meeting in St. Louis, a fact which is insignificant to me, as I care not for such trifles. Though at this particular meeting, twas not a man of science which graced the attention of those gathered, but a singular irritating torn in my side John Raymond Legrasse, how the vile name rises bile in my throat with utter hatred and resentment. For this loathsome individual, a Police Inspector from New Orleans, had with a body of twenty men descended upon a most sacred ritual of vile worship delicious disciples of chaos, wrapped in the throes of carnal desire as they danced, slaughtered, chanted and romped in my name!

My loyal, my people, my adoring fools had attracted the attention of the police force following the disappearance of local women and children, they’re with me now, their souls my property, gifts from my dark cult. But they had become careless, their wild orgies and abductions brought the police out of the town and deep into the swamp, armed with the law on their side, these unsuspecting uniformed puppets had no idea what to expect as they stalked through the grime, the wild chants and drumming only added to their anxiety, feeding their fears, which could never, ever, prepare them fully for the glimpse into my domain that they now faced.

A living nightmare, dreadful demonic scenes of dismemberment and ecstatic inhuman howling greeted the police as their forces clashed with mine and the swamp erupted into conflict, normal average men fought through their shock, horror and disgust, which I personally delight in. I was appalled and enraged that my ritual had been ruined by these mundane humans and my loyal creatures, caged or slain. Though the ultimate insult was when Legrasse took the idol of my likeness into his possession as evidence, like a vase from a thrift shop. Had he no idea that I was connected to this sculpture? That I could feel his warm clammy hands surround the alien marble as I was man-handled and tugged about like a sideshow curiosity.

They interrogated my followers, but their sanity had been so badly damaged by their loyalty to me, that at most the police received some bizarre rambling in a foreign tongue and half-truths combined with the glorious lunacy of broken minds.

So armed with fragmented pieces of the puzzle and the icon of my resemblance, Legrasse approached the intellectual men of The American Archaeological Society, recounted the events of that fretful night and displayed my statue like a morbid trophy. As I passed from one set of hands to the next, I peered into the souls of these men and lusted revenge for their maltreatment of my visage!

It was at this assembly, that I was passed once again into the strong old hands of William Channing Webb another fork in the road of fates journey where we cross paths again, far different from out last meeting sweet Professor Webb? All those years ago in the far reaches of Greenland, how far does my cult spread throughout the underground of this world? From New Orleans sadists to degenerate Esquimaux, my tendrils reach out far into society, hidden in plain sight, waiting, watching, loyally for the stars to align.

I remember you Professor Webb, I feel your heart begin to race, and your hands tremble ever so, an uncomfortable sweat slick upon your weathered brow. My form in your hands recalls memories, you had thought forgotten, lost in the darkness of your mind where you resisted remembering the encounter in Greenland. I feel your panic, your fear, your anxiety. Did you never tell your companions how you had lost your eye? How you despise your own scarred features? Did you keep me hidden away, like a dirty embarrassing secret? Doesn’t the recounting of the swamp ritual not awaken images of similar degenerate rites held over forty years ago, in another country, that you have seen before, blood on a snow white ground instead of merged with dark mud? Sacrifice, slaughter, debauchery… OH… now you remember me Professor Webb… you also remember my chant don’t you? The cries of the summoning… you remember, Legrasse remembers, for my words are a hunting cry, tumbling through time. Uplifting my cultists and striking fear into the very soul of good men who accidently stumbled across my existence.

“Ph’uglui mglw’nafh … R’lyeh wgah’nagl Fhtagn!”

Memories… for Legrasse, Webb and the recently deceased Angell have passed from this realm now, and it is  into the hands of Professor Angell’s Great-Nephew that my tale now finds a home, hidden within the depths of paperwork at his uncles estate the young man unearths the decades of dedicated research which had consumed the time of the late Professor. With a curious nature and astonishment at the amount of evidence amassed Angell’s obsession became contagious, his Nephew drinking up the knowledge, like a parched man at a watering hole in the dessert. It both frightened and inspired the young man, I watched, as I always do, from my eternal dreams. I felt the shift in his sanity as his mind became rocked and shaken by the enormous realisation, of monstrous hidden truths and disgusting facts.

He read through the detailed events, that I have recalled briefly, shocked and alarmed by these actualities the young man pushed aside the box of files, his thoughts unwilling or unable to comprehend any more. Though I already had a mental hold on his fragile frayed edge of stability, it was only a matter of time. Fate always had a way of drawing the curious deeper into the pit of forbidden knowledge until there was no way out besides the ultimate price, your life or your soul.

He discarded the files and notes, returning to his own work to clear his thoughts, dwelling on the mundane as a relief when a perfect synchronicity threw him back into my arms again, in the form of a simple newspaper clipping from the Sydney Bulletin and our young victim was reminded of an unopened file amongst his Great-Uncles research.

Labelled cryptically as ‘The Madness from the Sea’.

The random newspaper clipping corresponded with this file and it was with some trepidation that he finally reclaimed the file and opened it to read the final and frightening chapter of this saga. Times, dates and co-ordinates mean nothing to me, I care not for when or where events took place, yet Professor Angell amassed as much detail as possible and even these mundane facts had not escaped his scrupulous attention.

I said I care not and I don’t, but there are those foolish or unlucky enough to venture into uncharted waters of the vast ocean and as it was, during the same period as Wilcox’s delirium. You may be mistaken to believe that my cult restricts itself to snowy wastelands or dense swamps, there are those amongst my brood who have taken to the waves, following my mental instructions detailing esoteric directions to an island that exists between realms, they bring me gifts, bodies to mutilate, minds to consume and souls to destroy for my morbid collection. It was a comfortable arrangement with these primitive pirates. Storms surrounded my island, discouraging wise sailors, or drawing victims to my shore.

The ‘Emma’ had been entangled in one such storm, throwing her wildly off course and into my domain. My pirates upon the ‘Alert’ attacked and though ‘Emma’ was lost to the sea, so too were my pirates, out skilled by the sailors from ‘Emma’ who took the ‘Alert’ as their own, as a transport to flee the wild uncharted seas and the dark foreboding island upon the brooding horizon.

A simple tale re-told in a snippet from a local newspaper, naturally the whole tale was condensed to a few paragraphs of insignificant facts, dismissing the details as the lunacy of a single survivor, who clutched to his hollow chest a figurine, not totally unlike the ones Legrasse and Webb had unearthed, this figure he had discovered upon the ‘Alert’ and clung to it as a mother would a new born babe.

The file ended abruptly, but Angell’s Nephew proved to be a significant researcher in his own right, he sought out more information on the strength of a vague report. Discovered the ‘Alert’ redeployed and still afloat, he ventured to museum and library alike and finally, amongst dusty shelves of a back room store chamber, he finally came face to face with my idol. I have him now, for he has laid eyes upon my statue and through that I can bore into his very soul and instigate obsession and finally madness. Alas he was physically denied to ‘touch’ the item, safely held within the cotton gloved hands of a closed (so safe) mind of a humble museum assistant.

But even this was not enough, even with the threat of his very thoughts crumbling into delirium, our latest researcher ventured further than his Great-Uncle ever had, travelling all the way to Oslo Norway in search of the sole survivor from the ‘Emma’ Gustaf Johansen. Though a vast deterioration of Johansen’s health had led to an early grave, his Widow presented our intrepid explorer with her late husband’s journal, written in English, to prevent his wife from reading the truth, the truth was finally within the hands of Angell’s Nephew and it was with hesitant fingers that he turned the pages and began to read the dead man’s words.

Upon the island the crew had disembarked with a mixture of curiosity and fear, for the dank island appeared on no charts nor maps, just loomed out the sea in a foreign rock, with twisted angels and slick slime coated walls, the physical stuff of nightmares, dark clouds rolled in overhead and spluttering faggots provided a merger light which added to the dense shadows and overwhelming horror of the place.

Enraged I arose from my usual slumbering state; with a stone shaking howl that chilled the blood of the foolish sailors I cast aside the walls of my unearthly tomb as though the mighty stone slabs were naught but driftwood. I crushed, devoured and smite all those insignificant fleas who dared to violate my island with their disgusting presence, who dared to awake me before the stars align, to do so is to feel my enormous wrath as I feast upon the souls of the weak and one by one destroy the men from the ‘Emma’.

Two turned to flee as I devoured their crew mates; I pursued them towards the sea, a dark shadow promising an unholy death. They boarded the ‘Alert’ and with full steam astern they attempted to escape, yet I was gaining upon the toy boat, tossed about by fierce waves I created within my wake, then, unexpected on my behalf, the ship changed course and charged with full steam ahead. The following events were sudden and simple, I was struck in the mid-drift, wounded, injured, though more of an annoying pin-prick than anything that could truly damage one as eternal as me, Still it stung, I bellowed, I bleed, vile stanching pungent fluids poured forth and that alone was enough to cast one crewman into the realms of the dark abyss as he clawed out his eyes from merely witnessing the event.

Johansen escaped, long enough to return home and put pen to paper, recording the account, which would finally send him gibbering and broken to his grave.

It was Johansen’s words which finally tipped the balance in the mind of Angell’s Nephew, he was hospitalised shortly after his research finally uncovered the diseased truth, by then my mental intrusion was complete. He was mine, and even though he appealed to his lawyer, implored him to destroy all notes, all research, and all evidence. Even though his lawyer promised faithfully to comply with his wishes, did he?

For you’re reading this right now, are you not?

 

“That is not dead which can eternal lie, 

And with strange aeons even death may die.”

 

 

Submission and Reply: Homework Feedback (edited to remove email addresses only)

 

 

 

The Origin of the Muse

AKA… Where do ideas come from?

I suppose this could be classed as one of those deep and meaningful, philosophical, metaphysical theories. The topics of collective unconsciousness, hive minds and soul clusters have been scattered far and wide across the internet where everyone is an expert and all need to explain their conclusions, dressed in fancy words to quote and unquote great minds, ancient philosophy and modern psychology to prove their findings and argue they are right.

That’s all very well for those with initials after their name and those with egos to feed, but what of your average bus journey thinker? How does the uneducated make an educated opinion on such a subject?

Well, in all honestly, everyone is entitled to their own opinion and people collect many opinions on various subjects, from politics and religion to brown or white bread. Yet our opinions make up just a small amount of who we are, they are fluid and ever changing. We judge one another for our opinions, we are defined by our opinions, but we are not solely just our opinions! We can agree to disagree, but slaughtering each other appears to be the main course of actions if our opinions clash.

I digress from my initial musing, where do ideas come from? Guess what, I don’t know. I don’t even think I have a theory here that is remotely interesting. Outside sources and inspiration from what we see, hear, read, watch, etc… these obviously have an influence, but so do dreams, those strange internal sparks, which flutter into life within our sleeping minds. All these things and more may inspire greatness or horror, our thoughts roll around inside our brain, they guide our actions, create opinions and form words from seemingly nothingness.

So today I would like to share with you a really rough, half scribbled piece of writing, thrown together in a rush before the scene in my mind was forgotten. Complete with spelling mistakes, scrubbed out words, repeated words and all the glorious errors of a first draft.

I can tell you exactly where this piece came from, how it entered my mind and why it was written so quickly without care. For it is the result of a meditation, what was seen in my mind, I could see as clear as day and although my words give the scene little credit, for I can not capture the stench, temperature or similar sensations that might be experienced in a meditation. I am glad I recorded it, no matter how roughly, for each time I read it through I find myself back there, where ever ‘there’ is…

… Somewhere within the dark recesses of my mind… Toki.

Anne Harrison 19.11.15

Scribbling

I scribble a lot, I pour thoughts onto paper to clear my mind and reflect upon what I need to focus on. It’s something I have done even more in recent months as my life has taken various twists and turns in direction.

Sometimes I am an enigma to myself, I go through moments where I want to grasp everything in both hands and consume myself in so many activities and there is the reality, where I find myself far too shattered to do anything more than scribble about what I would like to do.

So how do I get from notes into action? How do I regain motivation and is it really motivation I need? When I’m starting to think it’s continuity I crave instead… For I am motivation driven, I cram so much into my life that I have no concept of boredom, even in my quite moments I find myself scribbling, plotting and planning, thinking on paper.

‘Time’ was the concept behind the short story Each Passing Moment (which was included in the last blog). Yet, here, within the scribbled notes that formed the basis of this tale. Among the structure of the story, you will find random thoughts, as my mind has shifted from what I’m focusing on to what I was ‘feeling’ instead.

I’ve noticed that I do this a lot, scribble, and change direction even in the midst of focus. My mind has this wonderful habit of exploring various trails of ideas while my train of thought is still stationary in the platform.

Anne Harrison 17.11.15