Let us Live in Light
Friday is my last day at Academy. Mixed emotions.
Not really.
"Dennika" is finished. I have a feeling that I've said that once or twice before, but now it's official - a final edit (read: fourth) and a few stamps. It's surely reached the Big Apple by now (the eleventh floor of some random high rise) and hopefully the readers (if they've read it yet) are liking it. But we'll see.
Let us Live in Light is currently in the works; opening monologue is complete, scene one begins tonight.
Qui est- ce que allume la façon? Qui...? Qui...?
I've been climbing much more recently, too much. Tomorrow will make three days in a row. Buildering down here is limited, but I've put up some simple lines about half a mile from my house; they're nothing amazing, but can be fun to run circuits on.
And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, the opening monologue:
NAME: What a place we are at… God! What a time we are in. (He rises.) Perpending, I
have sat here for millennia. What follows is what follows does as fellows do in times of turmoil. Turmoil - now there’s a word for an age, an epoch. It evokes a… a feeling of change, of movement, does it not? Movement! Dear Gods what a terrifying invention, movement. Movement begets that which is most feared by man - the absolvement of familiarity. From great movement man receives great change, in one direction or another. Think of it: the path along the three stages of being is punctuated by Turmoil.
The first that we can see, Conception, is a violent affair. The egg is assaulted - ATTACKED - by millions of masculine warriors all flitting about for a piece of the action. One, or on occasion two, or none succeed, bursting the outer wall and forcing itself onto and inside the egg! That moment… that first moment which occurs in this, our corporeal space, instantly pulls new life and a second breath into the belly of the now- child’s vessel. This new existence is but temporary, a brief nine months spent in a protective shell of fluid and skin. Here - we grow. One cell becomes two, two become four, four become eight, sixteen! Thirty- two! Sixty- four! One- thousand twenty- four! (Screaming.) One million, forty- eight thousand five hundred and seventy- six! (He collapses, exhausted.)
(Silence, heavy breathing.)
And then… (He lifts his head, slowly.) pain. Searing light. Pushed through the door from one life to the next, we cease to live of the mother, and others enter the field. And then we grow, grow into an arbitrary life on an arbitrary world revolving around a singular star in a singular galaxy of billions in a universe finite in its possibilities, in its interactions with the others. And then… then through some violent event or another we leave this wand’rous, haphazard path, and enter into breath, and sky and sea. (He gazes upward, captivated.) What are we then, what are? What thoughts and inspiration are we, unto the dying of ourselves in that land, and the rebirth, through violent Conception, into this…
This eternal shiver of the spine, goose bumps down the arms and legs. Where are we if not forever inside the Birkenau… Birkenau… Now who are we? Now who are we? Now… who are we?
Not really.
"Dennika" is finished. I have a feeling that I've said that once or twice before, but now it's official - a final edit (read: fourth) and a few stamps. It's surely reached the Big Apple by now (the eleventh floor of some random high rise) and hopefully the readers (if they've read it yet) are liking it. But we'll see.
Let us Live in Light is currently in the works; opening monologue is complete, scene one begins tonight.
Qui est- ce que allume la façon? Qui...? Qui...?
I've been climbing much more recently, too much. Tomorrow will make three days in a row. Buildering down here is limited, but I've put up some simple lines about half a mile from my house; they're nothing amazing, but can be fun to run circuits on.
And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, the opening monologue:
NAME: What a place we are at… God! What a time we are in. (He rises.) Perpending, I
have sat here for millennia. What follows is what follows does as fellows do in times of turmoil. Turmoil - now there’s a word for an age, an epoch. It evokes a… a feeling of change, of movement, does it not? Movement! Dear Gods what a terrifying invention, movement. Movement begets that which is most feared by man - the absolvement of familiarity. From great movement man receives great change, in one direction or another. Think of it: the path along the three stages of being is punctuated by Turmoil.
The first that we can see, Conception, is a violent affair. The egg is assaulted - ATTACKED - by millions of masculine warriors all flitting about for a piece of the action. One, or on occasion two, or none succeed, bursting the outer wall and forcing itself onto and inside the egg! That moment… that first moment which occurs in this, our corporeal space, instantly pulls new life and a second breath into the belly of the now- child’s vessel. This new existence is but temporary, a brief nine months spent in a protective shell of fluid and skin. Here - we grow. One cell becomes two, two become four, four become eight, sixteen! Thirty- two! Sixty- four! One- thousand twenty- four! (Screaming.) One million, forty- eight thousand five hundred and seventy- six! (He collapses, exhausted.)
(Silence, heavy breathing.)
And then… (He lifts his head, slowly.) pain. Searing light. Pushed through the door from one life to the next, we cease to live of the mother, and others enter the field. And then we grow, grow into an arbitrary life on an arbitrary world revolving around a singular star in a singular galaxy of billions in a universe finite in its possibilities, in its interactions with the others. And then… then through some violent event or another we leave this wand’rous, haphazard path, and enter into breath, and sky and sea. (He gazes upward, captivated.) What are we then, what are? What thoughts and inspiration are we, unto the dying of ourselves in that land, and the rebirth, through violent Conception, into this…
This eternal shiver of the spine, goose bumps down the arms and legs. Where are we if not forever inside the Birkenau… Birkenau… Now who are we? Now who are we? Now… who are we?