More republishing

content/post/2018/01/31-dont-look-back/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Frenetic Scribblings #31: Don’t look back"
+date =	"2018-01-01"
+categories = ["writing"]
+tags = ["freneticscribblings"]
+[[resources]]
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+Every writer is different. Not just in their particular turn of phrase. Not just in their writing style, though that is often the difference most apparent.
+
+Writers are different because writing is different. Writing flows from experience, it is intrinsically personal.
+
+Everyone writes differently.
+
+Maybe you plan, maybe the words just stream from you without thinking.
+
+Maybe you edit obsessively. Or maybe you do the barest of checks before tossing the piece into the wild.
+
+Maybe you write frenetically when the mood takes you, and then suddenly stop. Maybe you write at a set time each day.
+
+Personally, I don’t know how I write. I just kind of…think onto paper. Inspiration particles strike me at random, setting off a web of lightning within my brain. Then the words stream forth, without thought. Or sometimes the words have to be coaxed out, dragged from the darkest recesses.
+
+The reason I sometimes have a massive coalescence in my draft hell is because I suffer from editor’s block. Sometimes, I write a piece, but hitting publish then and there doesn’t feel right. For one reason or another, the words that flowed out . So it sits, and I inevitably return to it. Edit and re-edit, but something still doesn’t feel right.
+
+I get caught in the trap of desire. Desire for perfection. A perfection impossible to achieve, so it becomes a cyclical death spiral. The only solution is to say ‘to hell with it’ and hit publish anyway. Spend too long looking backwards and you’ll inevitably trip over. Keep moving forward, keep publishing. It won’t be perfect — but is anything?
+
+That’s how I break out of editor’s block. Just hitting publish.
+
+Infinitely easier said than done. I have to stop myself obsessing over stats. I have to remind myself that each piece is an imperfect fragment in a still more imperfect overarching work. Writing is not easy, publishing is not easy. But it **is** worth it.
+
+How you write doesn’t matter.
+
+The important thing is that it is written.
+
+Tell your story, **yell it loud**. Nobody else will.
+
+Because nobody else can.
+
+> Thought for the day: Making mistakes is better than faking perfections  

content/post/2018/01/33-dropping-of-the-hammer/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Frenetic Scribblings #33: Dropping of the hammer"
+date =	"2018-01-03"
+categories = ["writing"]
+tags = ["freneticscribblings"]
+[[resources]]
+  name = "header thumbnail"
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+I believe I wrote a few Scribblings ago about my observed law of good chasing bad and vica versa.
+
+This idea tends to taint good times since I am expecting something bad around every corner. Always a few clouds in the sky as it were. I don’t hate it, though. It makes me better prepared for the inevitably of when those clouds roll across the sun.
+
+The storm always hits in the end.
+
+But it also always passes in the end.
+
+Just as good times always end, so must the bad.
+
+The storm always breaks, eventually.
+
+This knowledge makes weathering the storm easier.
+
+Circumstances mean I must cut this short. The storm has just begun, after all.
+
+
+> Thought for the day: There are some things you can only learn in a storm.  

content/post/2018/01/34-magic-of-the-4am-silence/index.markdown

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 categories = ["thoughts"]
 date = "2018-01-04T00:00:00Z"
 title = "Frenetic Scribblings #34: Magic of the 4am silence"
-
+tags = ["freneticscribblings"]
 [[resources]]
   name = "header thumbnail"
   src = "**nightstreet*"

content/post/2018/01/burn-fierce-burn-bright/index.markdown

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+categories = ["poetic"]
+date = "2018-01-01"
+title = "Burn fierce, burn bright"
+
+[[resources]]
+  name = "header thumbnail"
+  src = "**MaUmG4lXNv3gyWEvruDQFA*"
++++
+Crimson like full lusty lips, beckoning you into a kiss. The flame of passion.
+
+Electric blue like the roar of a blowtorch, the crackle and snap of lightning sparks. The flame of drive.
+
+Clear like open air, shimmering on a hot summers day. The flame of spirit.
+
+White like a melded rainbow, colours melted together into searing snow. The flame of hope.
+
+Yellow like gilt leaf wrought defiant on crisp white page, glowing against. The flame of optimism.
+
+Cherry red like the core of a star, the roaring celestial furnace. The flame of strength.
+
+Blood red like the torrential force pumping through your veins, the rush of power and vitality. The flame of life.
+
+Pink like petals on the most delicate of roses, wafer thin and dancing to the breeze. The flame of love.
+
+Crimson, Electric blue, Clear, White, Yellow, Cherry red, Blood red, Pink.
+
+These are the flames.
+
+Passion, drive, spirit, hope, optimism, strength, life, love.
+
+These are **your** flames.
+
+Let them burn bright.
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/four-horsemen-of-humanity/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Four Horsemen of Humanity"
+date =	"2018-01-15"
+categories = ["writing", "fiction"]
+[[resources]]
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+*Foreword: My fiction muscle is horribly rusty. This is the first step towards knocking the rust off and as a result I am not proud of it. The fact it was written with minutes to spare before the deadline does not help. Regardless, I’ll publish it anyway. I might come back and rework the concept. Equally I might not. I am at the mercy of my Muse (she too rides a horse)*
+
+Hoofbeats rolling like thunder. The sun blotted out by a rising swell of strangling darkness. Other sounds rise to accompany the thunder: metal clashing frantically, a great gnashing of teeth; a sonorous tolling of bells and an eerie buzzing as if gigantic flies swirled in the foul clouds that covered the sun.
+
+Four mounted figures rose over the horizon. Despite the rolling gallop that deafened all around, the shapes glided through the murk.
+
+War sat astride a mountainous horse, steaming masses of rolling muscle and dark flesh. Both figure and beast were clad in obsidian black armor. Behind the shadowed eyeslit of the imposing helmet danced a red flicker.
+
+Famine was dwarfed in comparison to this great bulk of armour and muscle. Her horse skeletal, barest slivers of tendons articulating the faded bones, she herself is gaunt, sunken eyes bottomless pits that in turn draw the eye of the unfortunate observer.
+
+The horse of Pestilence, huge swaths of rotting skin cling to the exposed bone, blood and foul black rot dripping constantly, a cloud of flies envelopng horse and rider, masking any distinguishing features of the pustulent bulk that sits astride the decaying nag.
+
+The fourth hourseman, by contrast indistinct, a whisper of clouded air, the hint of leg here, suggestion of skull there, the illusion completed by the impossibility of looking directly at the figure, the eye slips, refusing to look. Refusing to see. Refusing to acknowledge the manifestation of Death
+
+Suddenly, the clamor died away. The riders stopped their rapid and murderous advance, halted as if they had run…no…glided…headlong into a solid wall. The black mist roiled angrily, as if frustrated.
+
+The sound of bells came again. But not deep and ominous any longer. High and angelic.
+
+War’s horse reared, letting out a great bellow. The mist shifted, and recoiled. In its retreat it revealed four new figures. Four more horsemen.
+
+Peace, Plenty, Health and Life.
+
+Four white horses, and four perfect men and woman astride them. Skin like painted porcelain, clad only in silky robes that billowed joyfully. White for peace, yellow for plenty, green for health and red for life.
+
+“Ugh, such goddamn killjoys” growled the spiked helmet that rode between War’s shoulders.
+
+Famine agreed in a voice as thin and reedy as her figure. Barely audible. Pestilence just laughed,a great thundering gurgle punctuated by explosive coughs.
+
+Death did not speak. But what Death *said* was, “Poor fools. Chaos *always* wins.”
+
+The Horsemen of Humanity heard. They heard, and knew it was true. But nevertheless, they fought. Moving as one, all withdrew shining blades flickering with the white flame of hope.
+
+They fought, lost, fought again. Never giving up. A metaphor for humanity’s struggle against darkness. Ultimately futile, but meaningful despite this.
+
+[*Original inspiration — [WP] Everyone knows the story of The Four Horsemen. What most people don’t realize is that the reason The Horsemen haven’t destroyed the world yet is they have brothers; Peace, Plenty, Health, and Life. But don’t let their hippy names fool you, they’re just as badass. Tell us their story.*](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/7qixjy/wp_everyone_knows_the_story_of_the_four_horsemen/)
+
+*Thanks to *[*Where Angels Fear*](https://medium.com/u/6c8bcd0d1a65)* for catching my tense mishaps.*
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/i-dont-want/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"I don’t want"
+date =	"2018-01-12"
+categories = ["poetic"]
+[[resources]]
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+**I don’t want the future**, bright **but** so uncertain
+
+**If** only it weren’t so, but it is.
+
+**I** want the warmth of the past
+
+Time I **spend** is gone, forever
+
+If only there were **any** way to wind back the clock
+
+Bright memory fades as time grows **longer**
+
+**Looking** for you, always
+
+Looking **back**, always
+
+**My** heart yearns
+
+My **neck** twisted to face you
+
+My **will** not enough
+
+Past torn away, present **snap**s back
+
+*Now read only the bold.*
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/some-things-stick/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"Some things stick"
+date =	"2018-01-02"
+categories = ["life"]
+tags = ["aphantasia"]
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+My blind mind’s eye pretty effectively neuters my memory. Because I can’t recall the image of a situation, I often can’t recall it at all. Forgetting where I put things is the rule, not the exception, for me.
+
+Cruel joke of the gods, that. Give a man who’s greatest fear is loss a memory that deprecates rapidly. Moments come and go. Memories mostly go. It is the way of things, and there isn’t a great deal I can do about it. So I bear it.
+
+Some things stick, though.
+
+A moment with a sufficient degree of emotional resonance will stick with me, even if I remain unable to recall the image of it in my head.
+
+Moments like the splintering of an innocent heart. Theirs, or mine.
+
+Moments like the ignition of passion. Spark striking flame, a mushroom fireball.
+
+Moments like those of greatest gain. And of greatest loss.
+
+My mind is like a sieve, selecting if not the particularly good or bad, but the significant of all kinds. Mostly, though, the sand of time streams through. Always a blessing and a curse.
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/the-backhanded-blessing-of-bearing-an-unusual-name/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"The backhanded blessing of bearing an unusual name"
+date =	"2018-01-10"
+categories = ["life"]
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+So many times have I been asked ‘how do you spell that?’ I reflexively suffix ‘My name is Arona’ with ‘spelt A..R…’.
+
+Having an unusual name is both a blessing and a curse. It singles you out from the crowd.
+
+To be singled out from the crowd is itself a double edged sword. Throughout my school years I was subject to torment with rhyming nicknames. Each group seemed to delight in discovering a particular schoolyard slang that rhymes nicely with Arona. Each thinking they were the first, and each wrong.
+
+The ‘rhyming thing’ still follows me, though these days it is rhymed with more adult things. Like Corona (with lime please!). Sometimes I wish I could change it — and I suppose I could now, if I wanted to. But I don’t wish to anymore.
+
+I’ve come to love the uniqueness it lends, to wear it with pride. My name is my brand, one of the few constants in a life of flux as I persist in trying to figure out *what* and *who* I am.
+
+It is a conversation starter, one that makes it difficult to hide. Searching my name on the Internet is incredibly effective — SEO? Never needed it! A blessing when I myself am trying to be heard. A curse if — as I often do — I’d prefer to go unseen, to slip into the crowd. A blessing and a curse.
+
+The story of of my name is by now well worn. I understand people’s curiosity, but it doesn’t make it any less…well…boring…to retread why I — a young white Briton — bear a name in the ancient Maori tongue.
+
+It’s also not a story I’ll tell now. Partly because I don’t care for telling it, but mostly because *my *name isn’t the point.
+
+Second only to appearance, a name is the foremost that you learn about a person.
+
+It is a part of who we are, and yet we did not choose it.
+
+We may be able to change ‘what we would like to be called’, but we cannot change *what others call us*.
+
+There are names in the sense of names that we possess, that are ours and used to identify us to others. And then there are names that others use to identify us. These are not always the same.
+
+If words are weapons — and they must be, if the pen truly is mightier than the sword — names are thermonuclear warheads.
+
+  

content/post/2018/01/to-be-immortal/index.markdown

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+layout =	"post"
+title =	"To be immortal"
+date =	"2018-01-02"
+categories = ["writing", "life"]
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++++
+There are two paths to immortality.
+
+> Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing. — Benjamin FranklinWhich will you choose?
+
+I admit to cheating a little. Life’s unfair, after all, so why should we be fair back? I choose both.
+
+I will do. I will do crazy things, just because I can. Better to ask ‘why not?’ than ‘why?’. And I will strive to touch the lives of others, in the most positive way that I can. Make the biggest splash, so that it may take the longest to fade away.
+
+I will write and write. Write with fury, attack with definite quantity and hopeful quality. In this I hope to produce something worth reading. In this I hope to produce a work that carries my name into immortality.
+
+
+> Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken? — Terry PratchettFor I fear death above all things.
+
+But, I’ll not spend (waste) my whole life waiting to start living. Instead I’ll spend it living as hard as I can.
+
+> If you don’t turn your life into a story, you just become part of someone else’s story. — Terry PratchettI fear death. It is human nature to fear change, to cling to what we know. More than that, I fear loss. Fear the changing of the guard. The out with the old, even if it brings in the new. And death is the ultimate among losses, so it stands to reason that it is the ultimate of my many fears.
+
+Perhaps not the best driving force, the fear of death. It sure as hell lights a fire under me, though. For that I am oddly grateful.
+
+Live hard so that you may be immortal, even if only in name.
+
+GNU Terry Pratchett
+
+