Upcoming Projects:
I now have a new writing persona, on the site quotev.com, by the name of Parchment. Actually, if you search "Parchment" in general now and "writer" I usually pop up. Its a pseudonym I am using :)
Also, coming soon, the great novel writing global project NaNoWriMo oh yes! ( nanowrimo.com ) a world-wide project where people alone or in communities are encouraged to write a 50 thousand word novel within the single month of November. Well worth doing, amazing times - love it!
Also, I am not attempting to generate some money out of this crazy thing called writing. I am setting up an account on Wrytestuff, which has advertising, yes, but which I end up getting paid for. Its an opinion online paper bascially, where I will soon be putting up my philosophical and discursive essays on Human Robots (read to find what I mean) and the topic of death, the different systems and beliefs regarding death, and death itself.
Found a great new site: ideagenerator.com which has inspired me to write a play which is now being put on. Contact me at ailsacorinne@gmail.com for more info regarding this.
Loves and sunshine!
Small Golden Wings
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Sunday, 22 July 2012
From my newest book I am working on: Of Death
There's that point when you get to a point, and you realise, was it ever worth getting to, this point?
Life goes on by, and you sit and you wait for it to pass, like some idiot drunk, sitting in the subway, watching as trains draw up, stop, open their doors and let people stream out in such a pace you are hit on the head about a thousand repeatable times, then more cascade in, the doors close, and the trains ride away ... leaving you there. And this happens time and time again, you sit there, staring, waiting, groaning, yearning for something to change.
But it doesn't.
Charles Rivers met the prostitute that night, just like any Wednesday night. And it was the same, it did not differ because of the bemusing presence of the winged eye. It did not alter because the insistant flapping of an incommunicative ball of flesh and minor muscle strained to peep in through the window by way of its metallic, circumnavigatory, ever-beating limbs wich caused it to hover indecisively like some awkward hummingbird. It was all a joke, but it wasn't.
Charles kept his hands off the woman, as the establishment ordered. He kept his tongue behind his teeeth as the prostotoute liked. He handed over his money before anything, as was expected, but what he did not do was keep his eyes to himself, or to her, or to the room. Instead, as she bruised and abused and gave him his due for disobeying his wedding vows his eyes did not. He had them focused on that tiny little thing that was not normal, that was not like everything in the world, like those trains rolling by, the clouds in the sky, the fish in the stream, it was not normal.
For those tiny little wings beat inscenantly, and they caught his imagination, fired up his memories and as Charles watched the eye hover and remembered his long lifehood on earth he couldn't help but consider one word. About another set of gods, about another world, another life, another civilisation and another set of myths. About another all-father, that was not Khaos, who had impaired his own vision for the sake of wisdom.
And as that eye sought out the only other source of immortality Charles realised he was not alone. He realised that though Hades, Zeus, Athena ... although they had all died he was not alone. There was another.
He gazed up at the wingle eye and knew.
Odin was real.
Life goes on by, and you sit and you wait for it to pass, like some idiot drunk, sitting in the subway, watching as trains draw up, stop, open their doors and let people stream out in such a pace you are hit on the head about a thousand repeatable times, then more cascade in, the doors close, and the trains ride away ... leaving you there. And this happens time and time again, you sit there, staring, waiting, groaning, yearning for something to change.
But it doesn't.
Charles Rivers met the prostitute that night, just like any Wednesday night. And it was the same, it did not differ because of the bemusing presence of the winged eye. It did not alter because the insistant flapping of an incommunicative ball of flesh and minor muscle strained to peep in through the window by way of its metallic, circumnavigatory, ever-beating limbs wich caused it to hover indecisively like some awkward hummingbird. It was all a joke, but it wasn't.
Charles kept his hands off the woman, as the establishment ordered. He kept his tongue behind his teeeth as the prostotoute liked. He handed over his money before anything, as was expected, but what he did not do was keep his eyes to himself, or to her, or to the room. Instead, as she bruised and abused and gave him his due for disobeying his wedding vows his eyes did not. He had them focused on that tiny little thing that was not normal, that was not like everything in the world, like those trains rolling by, the clouds in the sky, the fish in the stream, it was not normal.
For those tiny little wings beat inscenantly, and they caught his imagination, fired up his memories and as Charles watched the eye hover and remembered his long lifehood on earth he couldn't help but consider one word. About another set of gods, about another world, another life, another civilisation and another set of myths. About another all-father, that was not Khaos, who had impaired his own vision for the sake of wisdom.
And as that eye sought out the only other source of immortality Charles realised he was not alone. He realised that though Hades, Zeus, Athena ... although they had all died he was not alone. There was another.
He gazed up at the wingle eye and knew.
Odin was real.
Thursday, 5 July 2012
To the tune of "nobody likes me"
Nobody likes me
My sister really hates me
I'm going to the bog to eat shit
Big lumps of brown shit
Small lumps of pig shit
Watch me eat this poo.
My sister really hates me
I'm going to the bog to eat shit
Big lumps of brown shit
Small lumps of pig shit
Watch me eat this poo.
Host City, Host Country
Nations come hither and join
This song of unending peace
A place where we might belong
With a lullaby that will not cease.
Nations come one and all
Greet us with a holy kiss
Play your drums, strike a call
It is a celebration you cannot miss.
Weave your words with a poets loom
Lined with silk and diamonds too
Honey-tongued and all too soon
You'll find yourself at the sea edge blue.
Nations come and you will see
Our lions roar, our unicorns bray
Our pride that is struggling to be -
The daffodil and clover are not far away.
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Inspiration example
Just thought I would post this optical illusion, the sort of thing that often inspires me. Count the number of girls... on both sheets.
 |
| 14 above, 15 below ... |
 |
| this is how it works: girl "7" is entirely above the middle line, and so appears as an "extra" person in the below example. Number "6" bow can be seen on either side, floating in the air of the above strip. |
Friday, 18 May 2012
Seek her Seeker
Seek her and you will find
What exactly is in her mind.
Seek her, and you will see
The wild benelovant monstrosity.
Seeker, you sow the seeds
Of things hidden, in times of need.
Seeker, you prove to show
That there is something in the shallow
Recesses of the world at last
A net you can finally cast
Fish until your hearts content fulfilled
Then you can be called, finally, skilled.
You are the seeker, find her there
Underneath the cedar bare
Her hair like gossamer, skin like silk
Swans are her fellows, fawns her ilk.
She is waiting for you to find
The secret that was left behind
To discover that which is truth
So come, seeker, slay the leuth.
What exactly is in her mind.
Seek her, and you will see
The wild benelovant monstrosity.
Seeker, you sow the seeds
Of things hidden, in times of need.
Seeker, you prove to show
That there is something in the shallow
Recesses of the world at last
A net you can finally cast
Fish until your hearts content fulfilled
Then you can be called, finally, skilled.
You are the seeker, find her there
Underneath the cedar bare
Her hair like gossamer, skin like silk
Swans are her fellows, fawns her ilk.
She is waiting for you to find
The secret that was left behind
To discover that which is truth
So come, seeker, slay the leuth.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Lies and Love and Wretched.
I'M FED UP WITH YOUR LIES
Put away this disguise
And face me like the man I know you are.
You spat in my face
And left me in disgrace,
Leaving me to the mercy, the wretched abused mercy, of the social world.
You are blind to reality,
All of your insanity
Cannot compensate for the hurt you've done me.
You might try to get my pity
But in a word - your attempts are shitty
It's down to these words, these words that are no more
Because its this: an abuser thou art
You schemed your way into my heart
Then ripped it whole and beating from my chest
Now I lie here, bleeding
And there is no reason
To continue in my love for you.
Put away this disguise
And face me like the man I know you are.
You spat in my face
And left me in disgrace,
Leaving me to the mercy, the wretched abused mercy, of the social world.
You are blind to reality,
All of your insanity
Cannot compensate for the hurt you've done me.
You might try to get my pity
But in a word - your attempts are shitty
It's down to these words, these words that are no more
Because its this: an abuser thou art
You schemed your way into my heart
Then ripped it whole and beating from my chest
Now I lie here, bleeding
And there is no reason
To continue in my love for you.
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