Metaphor

I recently bought a book. Many books. The different kinds of books come in. Some are full of words, and are for the filling of my head. Some are empty of everything but blank canvas pages, and a longing to be filled by my head. And one of these is Metaphor.

A Metaphor is a metaphor for, is for fondling ideas, carressing them into existence. It is for taking the 2 dimensions of print, and arranging them as portals in a page turning world. Linking images together by feeling, or colour, or intensity or just whatever feels right at the time.

It is for scrawling notes, and words and meanings all for myself.. to horde and savour until the taste makes me dizzy. It is for snippets of otherworldly matters, stuck in adhesively by glue sticks and spit, and sweat, tears and the odd pint of blood.

Metaphor is a journey, and the journey is life. It's 4am dammit.

Ears, the Anti-Doorbells. And How!

Write something here you mugula snoot!

It appears as though the past version of myself wishes me to attend to his wishes. You see I opened this posting page in my browser the night before, so that when I returned to the laptop, it was waiting for me. A clever device and trap for myself to continue writing on here. It also reveals some level of my thinking at 3 in the morning.

As such though, this journal is more likely to be pre-events of the day, rather than an account of it. Unless of course I make two entries per day. This is all dependant on time though.

I've started posting things on Deviantart again. Seems like something to do. I'm a little less hesitant about putting up things from what I'm working on, even the strongest ideas and so forth. Because well, they're a vital part of my collective works, y'know?

So I now move onto the matter of who or what Mugula Snoot is.. well I imagine from the essence of the sounds inherent in the name that the chracter is left handed. He would shift from one foot to the other often, to distribute the energies spent by each limb. Is a research scientist or inventor of some manner, specialising in the elements and existential variables involved in metaphoral organ transplantation.

Due to metaphors being made of their own very essences, any part of them would contain themselves. This makes transplanting a volatile and unpredictable endeavour. Since the after shock and consequences of grafting 'fragments' into other beings are so unstable, many have fled from the very notion of it. Ridiculing Mugula for his persistence in a damned field. Mugula took this to heart, to the very idea of a heart, and began his lifetime study of it.

Perhaps he was endeavouring to reverse the deaths of metaphors? But this stumbles into theoretical territory now. And contradicts my notion that dead metaphors still function within the world. This is leading somewhere you know. My ears are still blocked and ringing, furk furk furk. I hope they're amended by the time I have to make my presentation.

My Ears have left me for Dead

Losing one of your senses is like removing a lane on the forth road bridge. Everything slows down. Communication and bearing is so dependant on being able to distinguish clearly the trajectory and source of sounds around you. Moving cars for example. My hearing has developed a lowkey humming to offset some hearing loss and I'm not sure why, but it happened -after- I cleaned my ears.

This has led me to thinking that cotton buds are evil, and I must seek alternative allliance. Trouble is, I wish to go to Boots but I'm a little nervous of venturing out in this condition. People might think I'm ignoring them... but this time it'll be unintentional.

It might be fitting to go to the library today? Book reading books reading books, writing stuff. I'd want to visit more often, I always intend on doing so. Life just seems to get in the way at every step. I think that's why people stress the importance of organisation, and routine and pre-planning. While I'm too busy trying to fly, I'm winging everything else. Scraping the tree tops, remembering they're there. Only to find too late, the mountain hovering over my back. Squulnch.

I bought glue sticks. Adhesive tubes for the sticking of inspirational two dimensional portals. A black bound notebook, will become the port and vessel for metaphor. A collection of gateways to the other world. The over(UBER) world. Or should that really be worlds? I wish everything I wrote in there, ended up here and vice versa. Digital and Analogue clashing, a frightful battle waging into the new millennium...

The book is A3, it swamps my words and lets me wade between them. There's a feeling of looseness, like the words though contained, can graze in the comfortable shadows of the closed cover. But what to write about... haha morning pages, written in the afternoon.