Life. A Beginning and An End. People claimed that neither mattered. What mattered was The Story in between.

He had no Story. Just endless pages filled with nonsense and punctuations; questions, exclamations, semi colons and commas.

He had turned 50 two years ago. Seven years to catch his mother. Nine years to catch his father. If he was lucky he would reach 65. He did not believe in luck. Or fate. Or destiny.

What did he believe in? G-d. Yes. Yet what that mattered in the long or short of it, he had no idea.

Death. The End. No more scribblings on the wall. The last page, a PERIOD, then nothing.

That did not scare him. Either there was a grand new adventure meeting him beyond the last page or there was nothing, not even a Yod.

Regrets. Nah. He had done what he had done because it had been before him at every turn, and he must pass through, whether he liked it or not.

Most he had not liked. What he had liked had been brief and soon lost to the inevitable conclusions of events. Looking back he thought of a shadow moving between dim lanterns through Darkness.

There were no maps in Darkness. No Landmarks to navigate by. No Stars to give even the semblance of a Universe. Still he had navigated there. The dim lanterns had never been visible at a distance. Out of nowhere there they were, in his face, and then they were not. Like fireflies.

Here and there along the way there had been small campfires and bonfires. He had even had a few campfires and bonfires of his own.

His wedding. That had glowed for miles, and it still glinted in his mind.

The first time he had sex after his transition. His first shot of T.

But that had been it. The rest had been probing and picking at Darkness from lantern to lantern. A shadow moving through Darkness. Just a speck of dark greyness against the blurred and undefined landscape.

Who had he been? Had he left behind splotches of himself behind at the campfires he had visited? Part of him wanted that to be the case. Another part of him wanted to be just a shadow passing through Darkness unnoticed. That way no one would grieve once he stepped off the road at The End.

The question kept nagging him: Who had he been? If he had been the sum of his own memories, he had been nothing to write about.

Perhaps who he had been was not for him to decide? Maybe who he had been was the sum of of the memories of the others around the campfires?

Perhaps he had been both at the same time?

Like someone drifting into a black hole. In 3rd-person view incinerated at the event horizon; in 1st-person view floating calmly in toward the singularity.

Would that be an accurate metaphor for Death?

To others his cessation in fire at the rim of the black hole at the end. To him a silent drifting beyond the rim into the black hole at the end. Into the singularity at the center of the the black hole. Was that what G-d Was? The singularity at the center of his existence?

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LiteraryLintMonster175x175i apologize for not having been around for a few days – i have been in bed with a nasty cold. the kind that makes you feel like you are dying in a thousand ways, and wishing you were dead in at least one way…

i have no idea when i will be in a state of mind and body to commence my everyday writing on this blog. hopefully soon as i do not want to disappoint my readers and followers.

here’s a bit sized piece from one of my favorite authors, to smooth you all over:

Author Q&A: Writing – Dean R. Koontz

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burning coals

PenFireSmallevery now and then one comes across a writer who leaves a burning coal behind when the web link flashes out of sight. i came across one such writer yesterday.

cheryl moore.

she shifts, holds me for a moment, like she used to, as if she welcomes the comfort, the closeness and kisses me. “hi!” she says, as if she’s been caught off guard, emotionally. our bodies connect, so briefly i’m unable to grieve properly, as she pushes me away, and gets out of bed. “i can’t. i’m sorry.”

“where are you going?”

“my piano.” she says with vodka on her breath. “i need her.”

if you get it, you do, if you do not, then i cannot explain it to you.

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Henric C. Jensen:

since i have nothing specific to write today – i thought that i’d reblog one of my own favorites:

Originally posted on Literary Lint:

I nicked this from Ketutar, who in turn got it from Aheila. My response to the Challenge

A photo on the wall. She is so pretty. Smiling directly into the camera. Her dress is new. Any time he wants he can recall that photo, and smile at how beautiful she is with her hair nicely done – and that smile. She’s seventeen.

A room full of people. She’s dancing. Everything about her is wild and earthy and golden. Her skirt is green, her shirt is white and her eyes shine. Any time he wants he can see her, in that skirt, that shirt, wild, earthy and golden – and those eyes. She twenty-six.

A kitchen that is home. She’s reading and making pancakes. Her skin is soft. She smells of  wheat, butter and strawberry jam. Her hands move like little ballerinas. Any time he wants he can fill his…

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lost lefts

LiteraryLintMonster175x175i don’t know about you, my readers, but i have invisible individuals in my home. you know the saying “water boils at 100°c, but milk when you turn your back”? well here it goes “turn your back and you cup is empty”. someone insists on drinking my coffee almost the moment i make myself a new cup. it is a mystery. i never see who or what it is, there are never any physical evidence, nor any traces or track of the entity that sneaks up and greedily slurps up my delicious coffee as soon as i turn my back on the cup. whatever it is or whoever it might be, is virtually invisible, because not even my dog reacts, and he is usually rather alert when it comes to movements and sounds. it has gotten so far that i have seriously thought of making some sort of ‘portable coffee cup’ that i can just hang around my neck in a string, so it will be i who drinks that coffee, and not some invisible goblins.


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no notes

today i have nothing – i am simply too tired after a full day of socializing, fixing with meetings and doing stuff on the phone. so today will be a blank bullet in my blog.

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who decides what is literature? the writers sure don’t. the critics think they do, but they only decide what is literature in their corner of the Library. that leaves one category: the reader.

“writings in which expression and form, in connection with ideas of permanent and universal interest, are characteristic or essential features, as poetry, novels, history, biography, and essays.” (Dictionary.com)

much of what is still considered ‘literature’ by the ‘establishment’ (critics, publishers, professors and copyright holders) has ceased to be of ‘universal interest’. meaning that the readers (i.e those who pick up a book to be abducted into an imaginary world) are no longer reading it. at the same time the reader is picking up books that the ‘establishment’ (critics, publishers, professors and copyright holders) look down their noses at – despite the fact that in 100 years such books will be ‘literature’ in the eyes of the future establishment.

funny, don’t you think?


Filed under General, Random Thoughts