EVERYDAY OPINIONS,

[For it is time to figure out what we believe.

As it happens when I am awake at length, in these primal, delusive states, beyond the point of being tired, this is what crosses my mind.

I wander away to the point beyond ever having needed sleep to begin with and it seems inscrutable to me to have slept in the past.

And of course I would need sleep, eventually, but for now I am infinite, I think, in these extended, circular moments; for now I am more than longitude, I am latitude, I am upwards, more grace than human grace, better.

And how we lie to ourselves about the necessity of sleep is an exact replica of the human psychosis. For we live unrested, until we are defeated: by the natural processes of fatigue, we unwittingly make our way through our infinities, and die as human.

By the final unbearable wound. We get damaged. We are chipped away by doubts and ridicule first,

Then we fade out. For all the times when a person had retaliated just in time to curb death, that person in turn would lose days to stress or languor.

So awhile goes by and the same things matter. There are platitudes we know are disguises, masks; we are enlightened; there is the subtle encroaching feeling that one is not only alone but as loyal to fate as puppets to the master. We reflect our fate by simply being. Every day.

Nobody can control being alive. It is our fate. And it is my personal scope of beauty to imagine all us as being upon this planet for a time, this planet only as well for a time, and forever afterwards a dauntless blankness, an eternal, breathless tomb: sans memory, sans any subject of reflection because, of course, the mirror stares out into sightless darkness.

I am the mirror in the closet. Or I like to think we all are mere reflection which has been put away. Or perhaps machines that bounce back and forth and thrive especially when bouncing along a familiar current: naming many discernible things and objects, dividing, placing them: objects that by their external nature seem to prove the internal nature of the mirror when in fact we are really speaking of a mirror, which can only reflect as much poise as the gazer permits to see in herself.

What is lost in this is not necessarily a subject to reflect on but the energy to do it. One in darkness reaches for darkness and then reaches no more. We live and know and map out the faculties of this being-alive, but without the schematics; rather, by the virtues of others’ discernibility, which makes sense as there would not be possible faculties without a place for those faculties.

And if being-alive itself is the place than one might as well discount the rest of those on this unconscious, watery marble, itself nearly impudent in my eyes, a thing sickened more by more care towards its opinion-less opinion.

So I think of this without sleep. So I grow hemmed in.

What is true void, indifference, or what I might call the pathos of the neutral. It is grass. It is the echoing of slipped leaves, many, at once, sounding a reservoir yet each in itself a leaf, nay but most times a leaf a commerce with the river but by all the leaves, all the leaves.

And some perhaps get crippled by any sort of habit of thinking, and then everything is states and category. And some yet are seen a thought-gratis, a new way suddenly there and for free, for those who understand doubt properly.

There are some who give up their own rights to change their mind, thoughts misrepresented in what is seen a baseless suddenness that one lesser might infuse with truth upon reading, scoping them, hemming them in, naming a tree a tree and a river a river when indeed a tree might be a river by the leaves that fall into the river; by the motion of the leaves one might feel the flow of water, and in water the physicality and pleaches of these nameless leaves.

And yes they would carry it around with them, these names-for-objects, these saying of a thing’s quality, difference, and all approachable if only based in some really absurd, debased source. We go on spreading the lie thought to be truth, so as to go on. But anyway, this is one hell of a massive blind, blue, and rocky platform to choose to follow along on, on the wave of wavers, doubts, scrutiny-of-what’s-truth: this blind marble: oh you blueness: the which, will always have its perspectives by refusing them all to begin with.

And upon entrance already to that final dying-time of all us. What will happen when sleep overtakes restlessness ?? No apocalypse. No rupture of the moon. Who do I speak of, or for ??

I speak of course of what amounts to a future of people whom drones now would find liable to see as dispassionate. I speak of one in death. For that is our grand future: and, it might just be what opens the gate into a world of all-is-one, where the leaf beyond the concept of difference, or naming, or reality, might instill within us, once dead, the same values, the same feelings, as that which is water, is river, is the arterial resemblance itself of what are the tree’s roots and leaf’s bones.

At the moment people may think, it is allowed: we are allowed to name improperly under the guise of dissection and critical thinking. Ah, well. Later on the deathbed comes something else, I should know, for I am but a death awaiting, before it like a satyr at a steeple. When we do live after all we are sleepless until we either untie the knot and figure-it-all-out so to speak, or succumb to the divisive will of the body, meanwhile thinking ourselves outside the realm of others, beyond, better than life, better than leaves, because oh, yes, we have the ability to name.

The most dangerous moment is when one welcomes a thing which advertises its certainty like as to prove one’s own need of it; a persuasion, an intoxication. One whom has finally ‘approached’ relief, like an oasis reached by those without water, burnt by sun and wind, led desperately through the desperate miles of sand and whorled, dry tree.

The retaliation is ceased then and so is the life, simply in hankering for water. A dying body is no longer a mind. It will happen and this maybe is due not only to death itself but a general analytical blindness, much like what any and all philosophers mention somewhere, that humanity is led astray by indifference, ignorance, lack of perspective, et al.]

SOME OTHER THING

great to just have to get the beating fools who want to fight it
out apart for one second again: I had a dream about my death:
I was waiting to go under the knife: I was in a hospital:  the two

of them were fighting within: their side of the story: trust their side
of the story, I told my doom: as for me, it works, empathy: a good uh
example is, they wish to mine more to figure out what I suffer for:
well it all leads up to the same delta: from the pain-vein hit, I ached it
more able, I saw, for feeding it: I became it: hungry for it, for feelings:
they all of them want to share what the other does: but that’s what
I don’t want to see: the other doesn’t want that for them, either, most
likely all myself—but separated.—this tragic clutter makes u gag on
too properly attractive feelings: it is too much : one who knows, uh,
enough about the eater to find much meat to munch here wld. but cld
I just, remember the other they say; cld I recollect what my ego-mind
chooseth, and cld that be who I am; who I was, rashly destroyed,
cld that just, yeah, be no ghost but prodigal: of that sphere-soul
I return, just this one time: well: make it more times: carry the very uh
hexameter! before being set in amber. there is
a fly, a me-mindless in that gold,
eternally in the damn sap, a
     drone. final status
           of me-mindless. suddenly
                        I am peckish, I
               get no longer to
                       be fed to the belly
          too soon, just right,
                      anyway. more of
             this is better than
                        none: more of
               the large petal
                      some imagination
           conjures for some
                     useless reason.
        it is going dead in
                 my hands. it is,
       along with the rest
                   of the lineage, a
         blot, a spot, a sexy
                  insignificance. it is
              existing here and
                      now, but I suppose
            just as easily cld
                      be resisting, or
         dead: oh: I mean,
                     common, an
               age for all of
                     time, begotten to
                 mean some
                         other thing.

BROKEN RIVER

           I for to summon to the promontory laughing, pick
Wedged food out of teeth, smell armpit, tamp down cummerbund.
Skin grit against face. Ugh. I’m old. Yet for to describe the vacuous flood
Of blood, it must be so. Each to each a psalter and a bent , well: AHEM:

Butt. We face towards themselves alone, they trickling into departments
Way down into the Basement Of Meaninglessness. We go crying
In rooms for them, as a solid streak outside peals through shitty blinds:
Then thunder thunders thunderous across an age as some jive
Gets lost with the next: we as the old equip the wrong ways to young
Birds. Minority and majority help themselves at the same table
        Of the accursed, the unifying factor is the poetry in

Being doomed, caught domed all around by pollution and bad
Music, sirens going off, taking PROZAC: and hearing pops in the brain
Like it were some new snappy extremity to life. Well, all is majority,
All is this river’s fractious movement, dead and yet with a way,
          A belting of motion so strong as to imply intent, as if

Water thought things, felt them when you screamed at a droplet
Of water, felt thoughts when you crooned to the same drop,
Perhaps. Natty as nature is it gets solid, like a relic, bakes
Into penitent ground, removes itself to the heartiest mildew,
Gets into, conjures away all else, into, a FOSSIL. It is we who
Are all along in our movement of death, the true aesthetic,
Mumbling bluely and whitely in breakers trembling their way,

Running as the as-intentional wind, wide and invisible
And felling the unfed ground with oxygen and revealing

The grand, gradual system of the fresh, bright-orange roots of
The trees: and o ample web, web of roots and ‘decisive factors’
And obligation, ream of boss, boo of ghost, stranger’s heckle: o:
What should: what should go, what will be what EZRA POUND
Lovest, which well remained: when’s the fossil coming

Round these parts: pardoner: ragging a stupendous bell he
Says sorry for his own bones’ quivering: me: ‘internal strife’:
Get within the scream, get so within, it gets along with pain’s
Restive gang till they turn on you with bats: ribs crack against
        The Pound Of The Bats: you die. Folly and folly, folly,
Folly. BLerg. So what is it to wrangle needles

From BD afterwards: WALLGREENS, a conniving card grinning
At the store: escaping eagle-eyed manager, the fat clerk
Leads dead man to the bundles in the back: she likes
          Him and tending to go on treating pills to

Those trodden-on, beaten-on—those with burs like scales across back,
Catches flack later from boss, “Damnit Hoss,

                  Distribute the price before you
Go and give shit to rail, straight into The Zone.”
Vacancy. I preach and preach to empty seats
Daily like Schopenhauer during Hegel’s Speeches

In the other auditorium. Black as can be the man gets
Pulled over for it. What in hell is the problem
With reaching for you license ?? Apparently

             Enough to shoot a gun. Cigars, Candy Bars, these
Are dangerous weapons. [Sarcasm, for the sacrament
Is dead, you sacrifice expensive poodles for nada.

The voice is great and resounds. I leave the promontory. Erham.
               The voice is letting me talk about stuff that matters,
        For now; don’t worry. I’ll get back to useless abstraction.]

UNTITLED

It’s the difference I suspect, appealing
To wider graces, forsaking lesser. That
Space belonging to my sullen mood now.

Where hush and hush make sentiments of
These restrained, lashing kingdoms of
Hue, appropriate bulk for such delay, an

Eager say, and for multiples of focus I
Consider my won reply a question lost,
Where have I tossed my doubts, and what
The cost ?? The difference I suspect

Is irked to life from knowing too much
Awareness, like: an accidental epiphany
As regards the shook tubes filled with
Plaque, as regards an answer I had more

Than thought to be found in the singing
From some rampart down at us, I should
Know: I was caterwauling to unpretentious
Stars.

6

Hello, writerly friends!

I got a bunch of questions asking for advice on revision/editing (of which I have plenty) so I thought I would make a TOP 5! The above are my top 5 tips for revising/editing your book. I believe there are plenty of awesome resources out there for editing, but I wanted to talk about a few things that are seldom mentioned!

I hope you all find this post helpful~ ♥︎

If any of you has any more writerly questions, send them my way! And if you want your daily dose of writer positivity and prompts, make sure to follow my blog: maxkirin.tumblr.com!

Nothing like a Saturday evening analysing poetry (in extreme anticipation of Doctor Who in an hour!!)

None of my practice revision books - or any of my school supplies really - have come yet, so all I can do is use the textbooks I’ve bought early to practice as I don’t know my schedule yet either.

I quite enjoy this though, I love poetry so much and I don’t find analysing it ruins it like it does with books.

benwx said:

My villain is a mole on the hero team, but for some reason, whenever I try to reveal this, it comes off as Deus Ex Machina. They feel fully developed, but I know that I can't hint towards their true identity. So, how can I not hint at something, then reveal it, but notlook dumb in the eyes of the readers?

Hello there, reasonably-stressed writerly friend~ ♥︎

I totally understand where you are coming from. This is actually hand-in-hand with a few questions I got about writing Mystery novels. After all, how do you keep the twist a secret without making it come out of nowhere, and without foreshadowing it to all hell?

Before we begin, though— I don’t want to be the Word Czar, but I have to clarify your use of the term ‘Deus Ex Machina' (I totally got what you meant, but I want to make this clear so that you and any writerly friends reading this understand what it means before using this term c:).

Deus Ex Machina is latin for: “God from The Machine.” It is a plot device in which a problem (or situation) that seemed unsolvable is abruptly solved via the introduction of a character, item, or element. This is considered a negative plot device because it makes the story feel as though the writer ran out of ideas to get their characters out of trouble. The origin of this term comes from Greek Plays, in which Gods would be dropped into the climax of a story to suddenly solve all the problems and bring about the happy ending.

A modern example of this would be the ‘battle of wits’ scene from The Princess Bride, in which Westley gambles for the princess via making Vizzini choose one of two cups (one of which presumably has poison in it), meaning that one of the two men will die based on the choice. Of course, Westley has poisoned both cups, and Vizzini dies regardless of his choice— except Westley reveals that he had an immunity he NEVER been mentioned, to a poison that had only been introduced MINUTES prior.

How convenient…

Let me clarify that I love The Princess Bride, it’s one of my favorite movies. I love it. I really do. And I get that the twist was kind of the point of that scene. But still. How convenient that a problem that seemed impossible to overcome was solved by something we could not have EVER seen coming :p

So, now that the daily writing language lesson is out of the way… let’s tackle your question~ ♥︎

How do I make sure the twist in my story is effective? How do I make sure it’s not absolutely unexpected, without telegraphing my intentions?

The secret to a great twist is not in writing the story…

It’s in the revision.

Seriously. Do you honestly think that writers come up with the perfect plot twist on the first draft? Of course not! This is especially true for Mystery novels, in which (more often than not) the writer themselves does not know who the culprit is until the very end.

The trick here is to first write the story. Get it out on the page. Then let it sit for a while, and when you come back to it revise it, revise it, revise it, and the revise it some more. I can tell you from personal experience that once you have completed a book, and stepped aside for a few weeks, when you come back you will be able to look at the story as a whole. You will be able to spot the threads where you made mistakes— and you will be able to find the perfect places to sprinkle a few clues here and there.

In your situation, try not to worry about how it ‘sounds’ right now. Just get it on the page. You have the entire revision process to iron out the details, to add elements that show this character as a mole and to leave hints for your reader!

In case you are wondering, of course I have advice for revision. I actually have a post about my Top 5 Tips for Revision. I think they will be perfect for when you’re ready to start polishing up this story.

I hope this helps! I know that not everyone likes to be told to ‘keep writing and fix it later’ but that is seriously the way to go here. You can’t write a plot twist (or a mystery novel) you have to revise them~ ♥︎

If you (or any of the writerly friends reading this) have any more questions, make sure to send them my way!

Keep Writing~

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