This is me getting sick. So I’ll try to get up earlyish tomorrow to write the paper. Cause it ain’t happenin tonight.
The Wall of Atwater Hall B: Perspectives
The wall.
Lost son in war: The wall stood before me like an insurmountable obelisk, crafted of carelessly hewn colorless stones. The building itself sits in the ground like a mammouth ship, its smokestacks belching sulfur from the furnaces below. The uniformity is morbid. Like rows of pine boxes.
Just fell in love: Each stone fits into the next, lovingly cradling its shape, conforming to its contours. The wall is endless, we see no beginning or end. Only beauty.
Bored: The wall is grey. Like the world. The stones were cut by some poor soul who spent all his living hours slaving over a pile of rocks, probably sitting in an excavator or something. Then some other guy had to stack them up. Yeah. The wall has some windows, but they’re kind of ugly. Who designs a wall like this anyways? Wait, no, who builds a wall like this?!
Frightened: The wall stood before me, blocking my only route of escape. I stared up at the innumerable hewn stones, each fitting impossibly into the next, leaving not even a ledge on which to grasp.
Responding to Kafka
Writing should serve as the axe for the frozen sea within us. –Franz Kaftka
Personally, this quote seems to be getting at a truth that many other writers have also quoted; that is, that writing is not the destination, or the final truth, it is a means of drilling through the layers of bullshit and all that, to get at what we really want to say, but don’t know it. The image of the author, standing on the surface of his own frozen sea, hacking away furiously, at times maniacally, is actually pretty hilarious. Yet strangely appropriate. There certainly are times when writing takes on a similar sense of desperate urgency.
Delgerkhaan: Recorded
[audio:delgerkhaan.mp3]
Enjoy.
Mongolian Night Hypertext
Mongolia, land of the clear blue sky, transforms at night; her blue skies fade to reveal the blackness of empty space, overwhelmed by a silent swarm of stars, frozen in a distant dance. The moon, if she is out, burns with epic brightness, casting a cool glow across the shuffling herd, who peer at me with amazingly complete incomprehension.
