More Online Finn

*mutters darkly*

Apparently Live Journal is the way to go. I have a nifty looking blog over at finnslair.wordpress.com but have realised that there is no subscription feature and I am of course alarmed that my precious words of wisdom and incisive insight may well go unread by the world.

newsboyhat has suggested that I make more use of my LiveJournal account and so, since I cannot refuse a lady anything, I intend to.

To avoid the horror of sparse content I shall begin by gratuitously posting some older entries from my blog here just for jollies.

Pan Narrans Edulis - or the importance of story

Stories..

For me at least, and I think for more people than care to admit it, stories are a potent force.

Understand the stories that people tell themselves about themselves and you will know that person almost completely. Understand the stories that people tell themselves about their society and will will know that culture. And with only a few unhealthy exceptions, no one is the villain in their own story. At worst they are a misunderstood hero forced to make unfortunate choices. Others may tell that story differently of course.

Learn a person’s story - the symbols that have power for them, the themes and motifs that inspire them - and you have the key to that person’s soul. You’ll have an insight into their motivations, their emotions, their decision making process, their self-image, their likely actions. Find a way to write yourself into that story.. and you own them.

It’s a scary thought, terrifying, especially for someone who pushes out so many of his own stories into the (semi) public domain of the Internet. Here I am, pay a penny and see what you can see. No refunds.

We’re none of us Homo Sapiens sapiens you see, no matter what the arrogance of classification tells us. Not wise (or even double-wise) except by the most optimistic definition of the term, and homo is simply elitism, attaching a new label to our species because we like to think of ourselves as separate.. though we are close enough to the higher primates that an objective observer would classify us with them. Pan Narrans edulis is nearer the mark. Mr Pratchett coined the first two thirds of that - we’re not the Wise Man we are the Storytelling Chimp. Edulis simply means edible and I defy anyone to contradict that after an hour or two with an angry tiger, or one of Dr Lecter’s proteges. That’s what raises us above the other apes you see- we tell better stories of our past, our position and our potential future.

I need a banana.
 

Shadow of the Past - a True Finn Story

This is a true story, and it took place in the past, in Finn’s house. And this is how it began.

Finn returned home to his house one evening and opened the door as normal, and the inner door as normal and then he noticed something was wrong. At the time this story took place, Finn had three cats and they usually came to harass him at the door, wanting to be fed.

Shadow was the eldest, a proud and dignified matriarch who ruled over the other two cats with a paw of iron, and a glare that could cut through steel (Finn learned his glare from Shadow).

Smudge was the next youngest, and by far the biggest. He was a bold tom-cat who feared nothing except for the sky (he had once argued with the thunder and lost) and Shadow (but all creatures feared Shadow, so that was nothing for him to be ashamed of).

Smoke was the youngest of all, and the smallest. A creature of fluff and persistence. She fought with Smudge constantly, though he would hurl her gently around when she came close - but she would always win by simply coming back and back and back until Smudge let her grapple his throat and then walk away with her still clinging on.

And all three of them would only ever come together for one purpose. To wait at the door for Finn to return, and to demand to be fed. Smoke would wait at the door till he entered, and then she would race for the stairs down to the kitchen. Shadow would sit a little way off, but still close enough, and look Finn in the eyes to ensure he knew what was required of him. And Smudge would rub against his feet, deferring the demands for food until he had welcomed his friend home.

But on this particular night, there were no cats at the door. No demands. And this instantly made Finn uneasy.

( Continued.. )

Another Argument

“Don’t you know how busy I am?” I said angrily as I stormed into his room. He didn’t even look up, just carried on sketching with infuriating calmness.

“Of course I do,” he answered, “I know everything, remember.”
He was sitting on the dusty floor, leaning forward and working with precise strokes using a pencil on the top sheet of a stack of white drawing paper. It would have been so easy to just kick him over, and so damned tempting.

“Don’t even consider that,” he said, “you know what a nasty temper I have.”
I hadn’t even moved, hadn’t said a word, but he knew anyway. That did nothing for my own temper, which unlike his I preferred to keep under control.

“Well if you know how busy I am, why won’t you let me-”
“Have any peace?” he said with a nasty chuckle. “Is it my fault you feel compelled to dog my heels with your incessant anxious queries. You get on with your work if you want, you’ll feel better for that.”

He stopped sketching for a moment and turned to look at me, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, a mocking smile on his face.
“Why not just get on with things?” he asked, “Leave me to my own devices.”
I wanted to stamp my feet, or rage, or call him names, or slap him (but I’d better not, he did indeed have such a temper..) but I didn’t.

“Just.. give me a little peace to get things done,” I said, almost pleading.
“You get busy, I get busy,” he replied in a sing-song voice, “that’s just the way it is. Run along now.”

I slammed the door behind me as I left and had almost reached the bottom of the stairs before I heard him laughing.

This is the Trick

Yesterday on my pillow I found a present, a gift that I was not expecting just before bedtime. What a lovely surprise. It was face down, and the back of it - toward me - was a familiar and complex design of interlacing knotwork. Hand drawn and identical - IDENTICAL - in every way to all the others in the set. His tarot deck.

Pursing my lips in concern I didn’t touch it straight away, not wanting to turn it over and plunge myself into the usual challenges and anxieties of trying to decipher whatever cryptic bloody message was being sent this time.

But the anxiety was there now already, and not knowing would make it worse. Whether it’s clicking the link, opening the private message, seeing the unexpected package on the doorstep or.. turning the card. It needs doing, and delay just makes it worse.

Thumb and finger gripped the card at either edge and I turned it.

Which would it be?

( ...continue... )

Resting on the Journey

Perhaps it’s progress being made, perhaps that’s just a lie,
Perhaps it’s just the fact that things remain
But after thinking that the ice was melting from my eye
It seems like winter’s settled in again
Another round of sleepless nights, of hours spent awake,
In wondering just what this life is for,
And whether every breath I drew was just a big mistake,
A story carved in sand upon the shore.

I don’t believe the lies you tell me in the drifting night
I know your voice too well, my friend, to fall,
But still the truth eludes me, hidden by too harsh a light,
And it’s hard to see the sense behind it all.
The storyteller’s riddle prompts the jester’s horrid glee,
And his laughter is as dark and rich as wine,
For the paradox unspoken is the truth that I now see:
I can spin the web of every tale but mine.
 

The Pomposity of Form

(the title of which is another example of what it is describing)

I’m notoriously bad at expressing my feelings.  Partly that’s typical English reserve I think, and partly the disconnected/depressive state I seem to be working through at the moment.  Those of you who’ve had the dubious privilege of chatting to me online or meeting me in the skin will know that I just don’t deal well with self-revelation or discussing how I feel.

Oh, opinions I’ve got by the bucketload.  I’ll happily scoop out a few opinions if you want them, on any subject you care to name.  Obscure knowledge, yep, help yourself, two pence a bag (bring your own bag though).  But feelings?  Good grief is that the time?  And look over there, butterflies.  *Runs off while the interrogator is distracted*   And I can usually cover up well enough that taking a guess at how I’m feeling is a fruitless exercise.  Like trying to do a crossword puzzle in a dark room with no clues, no pen, no knowledge of the language it’s in and no actual grid.  I don’t mean to be difficult, it’s just how I’ve ended up and I apologise for driving people crazy from time to time.

However… poetry seems to be an outlet.  Prose too, to a lesser extent.  Most of my prose has parts of me hidden away more or less beneath the surface, and I do tend to write about the things that touch me (through a fictionalised lens of course).  Mainly poetry though - it’s almost as though the traditionally emotional nature of poetry, because it *demands* an emotional input gives me the permission to gush forth with all manner of inner-life.  I suppose it’s because the form allows that amount of (what seems to me to be) showing off about personal things.  Perhaps my inner censor has been pacified by the conception that if anyone actually mentions it I can say ‘oh it’s just poetry, don’t you know, that’s what poems are like.  About me?  Good grief no.  Oh look, butterflies!”