Turrin' through the weekend.

Aye, well. Beautiful weekend. I ended up working for a play put on by a troupe of amazing and gorgeous actors called the girdle scouts. I was on lights, which led me to a close friendship with a dude named scott. Who is soon to be my employer, hurray money and fun. But, back to the play. It doubled, nay. Tripled my expectations for what it would be. I had an amazing time, and by the time it was done I was very sad to see it go. Only knowing half of the names of the cast and crew and keeping an eye on one in particular I forged ahead to the after party on closing night. There in I had a fun time conversing and shmoozing with my new found friends, names in my head and some just faces but all of them smiles. I ended hitting it off with this one girl who was pretty cool and cute to boot. We wandered around each other's personalities for while, drifting in and out of each other's circles, tentatively sticking out feet to try and trip the other, in a figurative manner of course. Being who I am, of course the girl of the night sticks out the most. She came home with my family and I that night. Not to mention a very drunk Grinch and his wife, the Grinch (Romeo) Was a very sweet guy and we ended up being good friends by the end of the night. Though he may not remember the latter half of that night... He was on a mission to be nothing but fucked up. Needless to say, he succeeded with flying colours. When I got home mum and Pa passed out near immediately, Ayla and I sat in the living room for another hour and a half of nice conversation, not often I happen upon someone whom I can talk to, it's nice and refreshing. A good change of pace.

  Another good night of sleeplessness, a cd made and the awakening to the sweet sound of voices. That next day went by in a rush. I think we listened to Astronautalis in the car. Not enough time. The clean up process was nice and smooth. Life lifted cleanly out of last night party ravine and everyone seemed well rested. Though, Romeo was not to be seen, we were all fairly sure he'd be in a self induced coma for the next week. (Laughs) That was kind of the weekend, I came home and passed right the hell out, woke up and played Skyrim. So here we are, in a moment at three in the morning. Tis' a good time to be alive.

Final's week.

  Life has changed a lot for me over the years through a couple moves, loss of friends and family situations. When it all started and I was quite young I fancied myself a bit of a poet and a very avid reader. When I got a little older I guess I was into sports, still quite the reader I abandoned the writing and took drawing. Became a bit of an artist, got good  for my age, hung on to it for a bit. Then, we get closer to where I am now. I picked up writing again, sort of as a mechanism for coping and half a tool for passing the time. But, it didn’t take long for it to manifest itself deep, deep inside my brain. Before long I came to view myself as an author above being even a human. I weave worlds out my mind with words. It’s a pretty good feeling.

  As a child my parents would do these poetry circle type things, where everyone would be “forced” to write a piece of poetry. My father, the bleeding heart he is, always spun beautiful poems of love and travel. My brother not much of a poet or an emotionalist at large tended to opt out, my mothers poetry always calculated and story pressed, then mine, which tended to be reaching into the realm of abstract. Those poetry circles were the first match that struck a fire in my heart. The second being the basic fact that I was born and raised in a library. My mum was a librarian and I went to work with her sometimes and just read, or I visited often. My grandmother took me to them often as well and would read me stories, just as mum and dad would. I kind of latched on to it and became a very young very ferocious reader. I ate books. I devoured them in one bite, they were no match for my thirst of fantasy. The more I read the more imaginative I became and the more disconnected from reality I became, I was only half there. But, half my personality was enough to seem as a functioning charismatic individual. Even from a young age. But, not long after I gained the love for the fantasy worlds created by other great minds things in my family became strained. I started to look more towards books for an escape, a cage to hide in from the real world, and I lost sight of who I was and started drawing, trying to find a door that would lead me to the real world.

  The talk of art may seem to lead away from the goal of this essay. The goal being how I’ve evolved as a writer. Since writing is my life I need all of these experiences on paper to explain that evolution. I reseeded into a shell, I didn’t talk to many people and I had a small group of friends who I played soccer for. I also played soccer for my dad, and drew for him and read to run from him. Things were thin, in the way of relationships or love. Two things that spur all of the greatest writers into the most beautiful of fantasies. This lapse in writing was long. Very long, it stretched into the ninth grade, past moving and past all of the troubles and encounters. I don’t remember much of it, I wasn’t all there. Then a wondrous thing happened, my family started to mend and a teacher helped me find my pen again. Suddenly, the charisma was back, the words, the wit, the smile. I was starting to remember who I was, and I started writing in an old art journal of mine. Things started making sense. Then she came and stole my pen and Identity. For another year I was lost, until I broke out of it. All these experiences built my knowledge and lust for adventure. It gave me the building blocks of a fantasy writer.

  Soon after I was free of the shell and shackles I began to mold myself as a human, nearly ten years late I did it quickly. I gained many friends and opportunities, but things were lacking. I didn’t quite know how to do certain things others did. I missed those learning chances. I missed years and years of practical experience. Soon I came to realize all I had was my experience, personality, and my writing. I began writing and wrote a brilliant novel in under six months. That was the beginning of now. Even with in writing the most significant thing is my story, followed by my vocabulary. My punctuation, spelling, and grammar is rudimentary at best. I’m going back through and slowly reteaching myself and am beginning to get it. Even to this day though, they’re not that important to me, all that is important are my words and where they go. I reviewed all that we went through in this class, and how not a whole lot of it stuck. But, my evolution as a writer followed a very strict path, I started of as a boy, turned into a shell came out a carcass and grew into an author. That’s been my evolution. All I’ve got are my stories. I’m a very smart man, but I’ve missed some things and I’m trying to reteach myself. It’s difficult but I can do it. This is where I am. 

  Now in the future. The furthermost of my evolution lies in the published world. I will take things that I’ve learned from here and my friends who write or who are scholars and continue my learning and keep reworking my craft, until, I become one of the greats, up there with Mark Twain, Phillip Pullman, and Terry Pratchett. Money would be nice, in-fact needed to fuel my lifestyle. But, what’s really important is that my worlds are shared and that my words are read, that everyone gets let into this beauty that I dream and see everyday. The songs and the dances. The scenery, the magic. All that is and ever was, as well as all that isn’t and wasn’t.  

The sound left only in The Silent Voice.

A stop motion interaction; the beauty of a frozen moment.

I met her in the heat of summer, the sun reflected in her hair and smile.

The sheer stunning audacity of her beauty hit me in my mind, numbing my speech and slowing my thoughts. An awkward smile passed between us, reminiscent of words of an earlier night. The swoop of lustrous hair drawing attention to her eyes, set above cheeks unstained of tears. A simple hello from the lips, that previously wove words around a room, words that later came to reverberate in my mind. Poetry to hang in the air. A stunning beauty to stop thoughts in progress only to later inspire them with the afterthought of a simple smile. A chiming peel of laughter released, after an awkward joke has been pressed out of my fumbling jaw, catches my heart off guard causing it to skip in place. The word beautiful would then pale in comparison for what I try to describe is that of a sheer unthought kind of elegance. Incomprehensible to all but those with the most poetic of hearts. A common passion shared lights the fire of friendship between two writers. Now I lay here struggling to describe the beauty of someone indescribable and just hope that she takes my attempt as a compliment. That a poetic flow to a set of meaningful words makes her smile in amused flattery as a near stranger serenades her with that of the silent voice.

The Spiral and Interpol. It's a storm and it's excessive.

Alrighty, it's a new day and my head feels to be in the swing of things. I wish there was a better way to advertise this son of a gun. But, you know. There isn't. I deleted Facebook and have tried to move on from the massive beast that is social networking and in some senses decided to become more of a hermit. Not a bad life. I'm enjoying the solitude, i just hate feeling lonely. But, it's something. It's all fuel for life and inspiration for the next step.

 I have some music here that I want to share, it's kind of what plays in my head when I live. Or think, I guess just functioning in general. This is the song I hear, Evil, by Interpol. I like that song, it makes me feel like me. Which I guess will lead me to talking about music.

 Music is the only way I can open doors in my mind without hours of searching and nonsensical guessing. I don't play around with silence. We aren't on speaking terms. Each and every second of my life is filled with music. If you're talking to me, you can damn well understand that I'm associating the conversation with a song. Everyone I meet has a song to me. Everyone a sound, a place they've been connected to me through tunes. I love it. It gives meaning to my words and moments. When I'm feeling the most confused I sit down with Paul Banks and my pen and scratch away at the paper while his guitar and voice serenade me into a world of my own creation, where even the most grave of mishaps is under my control. I love it. The only thing I can truly fit the word love to, is my writing and the music that accompanies it.

  Some songs I've deleted off my iTunes, and with them the people associated. I leave people behind like tracks that no longer stimulate my mind, and I see nothing wrong with that. It's not a defense mechanism it's just that they no longer interest me or do for me what they once did. There are a few people to this day in existence who seem to be able to perpetuate their song through all the albums of my life. I won't name names, and I think some of them don't even know who they are, but if they let me tell them then they'll know. I'm going to start posting chapters of books and short stories soon.

Thanks.
-Connor.

Todays.

Hello folks and stopper by's, I still currently have no real followers... BUT, that shall not deter me from recording my thoughts. Last night I had a dream where I raced all of my friends to a pool. There were some people there who I neither recognized or knew. When we got to the pool we all suddenly had water-balloon's and a large fight broke out. Now somewhere between my brother pulling a gun on my young cousin and telling everyone to leave or to be at stalemate, I woke up. I woke up to the same brother attempting to steal my money. I had thought I was still dreaming, and went back to bed. That's been my day so far to be honest. I'm not much of a sleeper which tends to drag me into an evening of non-important and inconsequential events. My writing is coming along slowly. I finally finished applying all my edits to my first book and am now onto trying to right my second one. A couple of real life complications has prevented me from continuing progress on the plot.

  But, I will be continuing today. In spite of.... finals.... Oh well, I've been working on them on and off. I've recently had a new Idea for a book. The premise being that there is a group of humans that have evolved further than normal humans in a variant of ways, pushing them beyond human capabilities. Factions begin to form within countries and one forms of it's own regard bringing together thirteen members of various countries. The group aims to dominate the various factions of the world and hold power over the world. I'll probably be starting that story tonight and making it my main project along side the sequel to "The King of Storms." So we'll see how that goes, well anywhosel that's all I've got for now.

All that Moves

To all that moves, please keep moving. Like sharks, if we stop, we die. I don't want to see any of you die thanks to the stagnation of progress. Push through, push ahead. Keep moving. Dory said it best. "Just keep swimming." -Dory (Disney and Pixar™) -Sigh-

This being a post. That it is.

I've been laying in bed a lot recently, kicking around my house, and skipping rocks across the space between the ground and the sky. I've really only come to realize two things, having so much free time you'd think that the possibilities of what you can do are endless, which may be true. Although that depends on who you are. See, some people's brains are kicked into high gear when they have time and space to think, me. No I'm not like that. I'm in best form when the weight of the world bares down on me, daggers and glares unsheathed and everyone's back turned on me, only in the darkness of pressure and solitude am I allowed to shine. So what have I been in this vacation of vacations? If you guessed happy, relaxed and care-free than you haven't been reading, I've been miserable and disgruntled. But, most of all, stressed. Now most of you may think that counter intuitive. Yet, to me it makes perfect sense. Since here, I'm trapped in my own mind, and my mind is filled with many unexplored corners, some that will never be graced with the prying eyes of curiosity and only scrutinized by that of the darkness that surrounds.

  So I spent this period of time wandering the corridors of my imagination and learned many a things about myself and how I work, and I kept smiling and frowning in two deft motions of emotions, and I can't stress it enough that I began to realize that if I am to succeed I need to be pressured and busy, but to enjoy that success I need to be free to roam my mind and uncover as much as I can before consciousness escapes its container and flits off to that next step in everything where we all must die. Now, the second thing I learned is that, if given time, People can spend ridiculous amounts of it doing pointless things, I spent many, many, many, many, many, hours doing just that: nothing. But, I was able to trick myself into thinking I was being productive, how? I played mine craft. Awesome game, though if given the opportunity, time consuming... So I needed some time to write some poetry right? Or else I'd get headaches and feel like a nobody, so I did. here are two of many.

1.
Dark nights and fire light. A flash of light and the turbid night. It's the perfect time to attempt to rhyme, to dance, to play. Maybe even run away. But here in the dark, only two things are true, and that my dear friend is only me and you.

2.
The wind bends and breaks the cover of clouds. Trees bend and rocks grind. My jar open and at the ready. Lid firmly in hand, I stare down the air, electricity crackling between me and all that is was and will ever be. I stare down the un-blinkable and dare the un-finchable to flinch. I stand there my jar at the ready. Prepared, to catch a storm.