Precession,,,,

Here I am, reading a book I haven’t looked at since I was a wee one,,, pre-teen if I recall correctly,,,

Well, not the “same” book, but the same author, same words, new intro, but SAME.

only, I have changed since then,,,,

I recall there was a certain morbid fascination reading it then, NOW, it’s a horror novel to me.

Farhenhiet 451, Ray Bradbury.

The change is this: I was a rabid reader then, NOW, I have published works in the spheres,,,, to include THESE words put out almost daily. There is a sort of immortality to writing, one that precedes you, even when you are gone. It may be that one book survives the trials of time and gets picked up and read by someone 100 years after you are no more, and for a brief moment in time, YOU, YOUR THOUGHTS, are alive again.

Immortality, to me, is an abberation that I don’t want to delve into, but THAT form of it,,,, Peaceful. Its not like I would be ressurected to whatever the world is then, but that I put something out there that drew someone in and let them forget about the day to day for a moment, or taught them something different, or ,,,, yeah,,,,

Reading 451, the firemen, burning books,,,, Christ that is bad. I am finding I can only read it in chunks this time around before I start getting the willies,,, I recall I read it in one afternoon when I read it first (never even checked it out of the library, read it while there, and checked out two other Bradbury books instead,,, I was hooked)

And to not write? Not anymore,,, Its in my blood, I can’t remove that without killing something inside or going flat insane. Doesn’t matter who reads my words, that I put them out for others to read is all that matters. Chance of insanity if I were to stop writing would be most likely. There are words that arise in the night that MUST be written, even if they take a decade to be printed at large,,,(Wings took three years and still isn’t complete IMO and fact) I have stories that have been started here, teased if you will, that are percolating into that strong cuppa, and I play with them when the nights are longer and the work is fleeting.

In every case, there is MUCH of me invested in the words, not just my time, but my thoughts, beliefs, and education (sometimes lacking and I strive to learn more to flesh them out) Sometimes, it’s just some hairbrained idea, like a six year old homeless girl with a bassett hound sporting a backpack, seeking a teacher to learn how to read. In Wings, every character was a part of me in some way,,, some aspect, loved or hated, but there, exposed to the world. I don’t think I am alone in that: I think every writer pulls some of themself into the story,,, otherwise, it might not be believed. (just my opinion, and I could be wrong, but if I am right, there are some writers out there that might need some mental healthcare.)(Who am I kidding,,, we all need some looking after in that sense,,, we are human after all, not perfect by anymeans, and usually a little bent in some way; we just learn to disguise it well.)

So here’s to the writers,,, Those of us that become immortal, intermittenly, like sparks above a campfire, but burning brightly for those few moments we are let loose. Here’s to the artists, that capture the spirit of a thing, encase it for future generations to witness; again, brief sparks of life, burning brightly down the halls of time. Heres to the muscians that grab our heartstrings, wringing them ’til we cry; in pain, love and happiness,,, brief sparks over three minutes or so, but burning so brightly, they leave echos in the soul. It’s in those efforts that humanity carries forward, not the technology that will carry us to the stars,,, Sagan was right with his idea to put that ‘album’ on the Voyager probes,,,,

(I warned y’all, I am a hopeless romantic,,, You’re getting to see it now,,,)