I have revamped my website, oobermensh, to include my miscellaneous esoterica. Included now are two blues tunes and a mysterious reference to being some kind of oracle.
Do visit.
Thank you. Here's one bone. Tell me its significance...
It's the Passover Season, and it's time for gefilte fish in clear jelly, things unleavened, and... Popopo Candy? It seems there's some new guests following Elijah in the door. Better tell Aunt Shelia to bring that extra bridge table...
Lost Jewish tribe 'found in Zimbabwe'
Welcome, new friends! Let me show you a bit about a New York Passover... Mensher-Style.
Writing, to me, is something magical. Where do the words come from - placed one after the other, to form coherent (sometimes) ideas meant to move me (and subsequently, others)?
When writing for real, I always compare it to spelunking: diving down deep to my reservoir of words and thoughts to see what I can retrieve. I am of the belief that if I dive far enough (and am left alone), I can get the good stuff.
So it's a question of Muse. And it got me thinking.
What is the best way to get deep:
Pad & Paper, or Keyboard & Computer?
The easy answer is "whatever works". But that's too vague.
There is something visceral about using a Pen and sheet of Paper. Something analog that speaks to me in a "rubbing two sticks together to make fire" kind of way. It adds to the illusion of Magical Process, and whatever adds to that illusion builds on that illusion, and (may) produce better (deeper) work.
Alternately, at 70, writer Charles Bukowski started using a Mac that his wife gave him for Christmas --
"There is something about seeing your words on a screen before you that makes you send the word with a better bite, sighted in closer to the target. I know a computer can't make a writer but I think it makes a writer better. Simplicity in writing and simplicity in getting it down, hot and real. When this computer is in the shop and I go back to the electric, it's like trying to break rock with a hammer. Of course, the essence of writing is there but you have to wait on it, it doesn't leap from the gut as quickly, you begin to trail your thoughts -- your thoughts are ahead of your fingers which are trying to catch up. It causes a block of sorts indeed."
My own personal process has moved from Pen & Paper to Post-it's and Computer. But I'm torn enough to write this post, hoping that by the last word I type I'll have the answer.
*Sometimes I don't want to come back up for air. It's cozy down here.
The following is my Amazon.com review for Vince Churchill's "The Butcher Bride"...
(I love this guy's work)
Addictive, like "Paranormal Activity" dipped in liquid Cocaine.
Vince Churchill's "The Butcher Bride" is a book that you cannot put down.
Like a rusty tilt-a-whirl in Hell's official Theme Park, the story sets an erotically gruesome tone and only lets up because the author seems to sense that you'll need the occasional breath. It takes the classic "Haunted House" story and covers it in lye, burning away the extraneous to get to the sweet marrow that frightens us all.
In "The Butcher Bride", the author skewers not only the characters of the story, but the Media, Hollywood, and those types of people who slow down at traffic accidents hoping for a dark glimpse of Death itself. The writing is special in that the words leap off the page at you with such clarity you'll feel like you're watching a movie.
An enormously satisfying read, you'll be sucked into the pages, at times whimpering to be let out again.
Really? Really, Universe? You really feel this is best? Sigh.
(curveball)
Well, times are a' changin' here at Heathenblog, and it either means the frequency of Posts and Quippy Updates will vastly increase or peter out entirely. We'll know soon enough.
(image unrelated, but makes me feel good)
It looks as if I'm starting a new job. A full time job. I'm not sure I can type it out. More soon.
to open up the inner eyes to see behind, where clear thought shies away from light, away from spies who'd hope to glean their mask-less guise And spoil life's one last great surprise.
into this void I'd dare to wade where shapeless forms likely forbade those like myself whose timelines braid one starkly lit one drenched in shade Where lives go on but memories fade.
tearfully or weakly emotional; foolishly sentimental
Aohkigahara Forest, west of Tokyo at the base of Mount Fuji, is known as the "suicide forest." There were 2,645 suicides recorded in January 2009, a 15 percent increase from the 2,305 for January 2008, according to the Japanese government. And so, a sign has been posted:
Translation:
Life is a gift you were given by your parents. Please think about them, the rest of your family, and any children you have. You don’t have to suffer by yourself, please give us a call (the Fuji Yoshida Police Counseling Service) and talk to us.
All web site text - including the selection and arrangement -- are copyright 2007 by candirufilms llc. Any use of materials on this web site, including reproduction, modification, distribution or republication, without the prior written consent of cf llc is strictly prohibited. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
