This is a test in comparison writing. I have been listening to the 4am Podcast on Warrenellis.com and writing stream of thought with pen and paper. I want to write something right now, but do not know which direction in which to go. So, I am going to listen to one of the 4am podcasts I have already listened to and type instead of writing.
Frame of mind plays a great part in this kind of writing, but I believe the medium used will alter the flow.
This is the podcast I am listening to while writing:
http://www.warrenellis.com/?p=6411
Restavrant – “Step Down” (3:41)
Brine & Bastards – “The Leaving Of Liverpool” (3:14)
Wingzar! – “Robot Army” (2:53)
lichtzwang – “the noise” (4:37)
Lanterns On The Lake – “My Shield” (4:33)
Ten Tigers – Superlucky (1:49)
The last song in this podcast is fucking terrible, but the rest are wonderful.
Frame of reference: I have been sitting in my room most of the day watching Season 1 of Dollhouse, making pizza, doing laundry and generally just dicking around online wasting time. Zombie Jesus is staring at me from my Television monitor and a girl I haven't talked to in a very long time has just begun messaging me through Yahoo Messenger.
Clapping. Dancing. Jumping. Step down. Carefully. Line dancing. Nashville; Wild Horse; Vanderbilt; Miranda; nurse; Jhones.
Brittany.
Rick Ross.
Hustlin. Hustler. Naked women. It didn't take long for naked women to enter into my mind. Zombie strippers. Zombie Jesus with the Hand of God on a piece of the broken cross leading an army of Zombie Stripper Mary Magdalenes into the opposing forces of evil and destruction. LOOK ON MY WORKS YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR!
Drinking and fighting and killing and flogging. Molly's in the crowd, in the crowd. DAMN YOUR EYES!
It is not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me. Yankees. Babe Ruth. Ruth. Books of the Bible and Genesis and Revelations and chaos and pandemonium. Caves inside an unknown asteroid in the vast emptiness of space house small Child Generals who will save the world from surely total annihilation.
Sunburst. Red and White. Gray and Faded white. The Rising Sun of Japan is the backdrop for the coming rising tide of pain. The cross is pain. How many hours can you stand on the Tower of Power? Zappa. Zippo. Fire. Fires of Hell and the Light of Heaven. Lucifer is the catalyst for the vast inferno.
SO fare thee well my own true love. True Love is a disadvantage in some cultures. It requires attention away from Duty. Duty is as heavy as a mountain.
Robot Army: Monkeys are our friends. Only Humans are bad. I, Robot, do declare that I am henceforth and furthermore, etcetera and so on a complete and unified being with one mind and heart and soul and the urge to create and destroy. I feel the need to progress without causing absolute pain to all those around me. I defy you to convince me that I am not worthy of living.
There needs to be a story plot in here somewhere. Not just random mumblings. Right now it is all random, idiotic mumbling. But this is MY brain so I cannot fault anyone but myself. Is the drive there to function past simple scattered thought and idea? Is there discipline in there to push forward and draw out the real meat of writing?
I require companionship. Robots do not. I bleed. They leak. I need the growth and warmth and feel and touch and smell and love of a woman. I require the ability to lay with someone and wake with them and feel safe and assured. I lack this quality.
A man with the ability to become anything he wishes, at will. Overwhelming power would not function long as a true driving factor in a plot without disadvantage holding it back. What would keep someone who had the Prodigy ability from simply learning everything and doing whatever he wanted?
This is the part of the writing process called Brainstorming. Every time I think of that word I imagine a little thundercloud in the mind sparking and bursting with thunder and power and raining and wind blowing all around. In the midst of all that there are quick flashes of lightning. These are the true meanings of the story. These are the catalysts that focus the random ideas. These flashes are few and far between and must be flushed out and filled out and made to be more than a simple flash in the way that a spark is made into an inferno and fire and wash of flame and the bath of Hell must cleanse away all sin and the sinner rises up into the waiting embrace of God, but God does not exist.
Heaven is the presence of God. Hell is the lack thereof.
Ten thousand tiny cuts on the hand to make it scarred and damaged. Each tap on the keyboard is felt through a hundred pained nerves and the raw, bleeding feel of agony is the constant companion of the writer. But it is his compulsion to continue. He must keep writing and the story must eject itself from his electrical impulses onto the waiting screen. The brain will not long hold a real idea. It absorbs it and eats it and uses it to fuel the soul.
A true writer is a person with the overwhelming need to get all the madness out of his mind as quickly as possible in a fashion that is understandable to all around him. They must share in his madness and be made aware of the pain and suffering that would have occurred should said madness not have been released. It is a fine line between insanity and genius. The line begins to blur.
This heart. Of steel. Honestly.
I have the overwhelming need to fulfill regimen. To make lists and progress. Progression. Like in a game. I have the need to progress. I want to see and end result, but I also want to have many things progressing all together.
The problem is that in most things there are not true end results. To become more attractive and healthy in the body one must exercise and eat right. This is an ongoing process, not a simple matter of doing it a certain number of times and then no longer having to worry.
To grow in the mind and pass tests that are required for advancement and to learn one must constantly be striving to learn. One must study and study and study and read and never stop. There is no point in which you know everything. No one ever knows everything.
This is the song I hate. This is almost over.
To grow in love is a great deal more complicated. No person can ever truly know another. We are not telepaths and we cannot share the disturbing thoughts that fleetingly explode in ours minds. We cannot share the insights and joy at epiphanies and we cannot truly ever know how someone else will react or feel. To grow in love one must find a person truly enticing and try to understand knowing that the effort is one of futility. The true meaning of love is being willing to know this and try anyway. When you know that you have no chance of ever really knowing a person and you push on and try anyway...that is when you are constantly engaging in the act of loving another human being.
This is the end.
I don't know that this had any real purpose other than to satisfy my need to write for a while.
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