One of my favorite sites is back online.
The Phrontistery. This is a site dedicated to the English language in all of its glory. As you can imagine, it is a much underrated website. Americans? Caring about the language? Absurd! What is this world coming to, when the uneducated youth of our fine country goes out of their way to expand their minds!
Luckily, I doubt any of America's bright young examples of ineptitude are reading this blog. If they are, I pity them. And offer them a dictionary and a quick course in reading comprehension.
While this hallowed hall of wordsmithing is up and about, I offer you a word of the day. Just a bit of long forgotten knowledge that may bring a smile to your face or a new wrinkle to your brain. We can all stand to learn a little something new, after all.
Today's word is: murklins. Murklins: An adjective that fell out of use around 1675, meaning 'in the dark'. What a fun little word, murklins. Fun to say, fun to read! It brings to mind small, furry, under-earth dwelling creatures, doesn't it? The murklins, a fabled race of tunnel dwellers! Tell your children of the long forgotten murklins and their vast underground cities! Remember the time when mankind clothed himself in murklin skin! (And now you know why they're not around anymore. Poor little fictional buggers were hunted to extinction.)
I can see much potential for this little bit of lost English.
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Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Friday, February 9, 2007
I Don't Take Anything For Nothing
I'm sure some of you have noticed the donation button on my sidebar. I know some of you have, because you've made use of it. And to you, I thank you. But thanks aren't enough, in my opinion. For your generosity and support, I do have something for you.
I have a new blog, one for my original writing. That stuff I'm attempting to make a living off of. And the stories there are gifts to my kind benefactors. One is up already, a gift for my first benefactor and a dear friend. It's a gothic horror piece in the Lovecraftian style, I hope you enjoy.
Read on, if you're interested:
The Starving Artist
I have a new blog, one for my original writing. That stuff I'm attempting to make a living off of. And the stories there are gifts to my kind benefactors. One is up already, a gift for my first benefactor and a dear friend. It's a gothic horror piece in the Lovecraftian style, I hope you enjoy.
Read on, if you're interested:
The Starving Artist
The Ideal Of The Starving Artist
Ah, how romantic a life! Struggling, starving, suffering, slaving away in obscurity for the sake of art! To let go of modern trappings, to give oneself over to nothing but dreams and hope and insubstantial ideals!
The starving artist has been hailed and regaled in literature and media for as long as I can remember. And why not? Who can't identify with the starry eyed dreamer? Who doesn't feel some kinship with that person who is able to give themself over completely to their destiny? We all look at them and think, on some level, ah - if only!
But, like Farley Flavor's dream of the girl next door, the starving artist is indeed a fantasy ideal.
We aren't all Christians. We aren't living in the shade of the Moulin Rouge, courting beautiful ladies of the night and drinking the poet's wine. In reality, it's a miserable life. It's a life of stress and short fuses and long nights awake, ready to give up.
But we still do it. The writers, the artists, the musicians. We all throw ourselves into our dreams and we smile and laugh when people remark on our romantic, bohemian lives. We don't bother to mention the bills, the frustration, the mind-numbing repetition of searching for that one break. Come on, who wants to be a dream killer?
Well, I suppose I am, what with writing this and all. But I see these romanticized views of the poor writer's life and it makes me laugh. Because I did think that was what it would be like. I had visions of a crappy apartment, of second hand clothes and dumpster diving and spending late nights in a park with like-minded intellectuals. And I thought it would be wonderfully romantic!
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, as they say. I'm still waiting for my beautiful courtesan to be moved by my words. I'm still waiting for that brilliant flash of drunken inspiration. I'm still hoping that some kind person will send a little money my way, for no reason other than my art has reached them. Oh, I know these are all just silly dreams.
But what is a starving artist but a dreamer who never lets go?
If we let go of our dreams, we wouldn't be starving anymore. But we wouldn't be artists, either. It may not be romantic, but I plan to keep on suffering for the sake of my muse. Slowly but surely I'm making those dreams of mine a reality.
And who knows? I just may find that benefactor after all.
If I'm lucky, she'll be cute. ;)
The starving artist has been hailed and regaled in literature and media for as long as I can remember. And why not? Who can't identify with the starry eyed dreamer? Who doesn't feel some kinship with that person who is able to give themself over completely to their destiny? We all look at them and think, on some level, ah - if only!
But, like Farley Flavor's dream of the girl next door, the starving artist is indeed a fantasy ideal.
We aren't all Christians. We aren't living in the shade of the Moulin Rouge, courting beautiful ladies of the night and drinking the poet's wine. In reality, it's a miserable life. It's a life of stress and short fuses and long nights awake, ready to give up.
But we still do it. The writers, the artists, the musicians. We all throw ourselves into our dreams and we smile and laugh when people remark on our romantic, bohemian lives. We don't bother to mention the bills, the frustration, the mind-numbing repetition of searching for that one break. Come on, who wants to be a dream killer?
Well, I suppose I am, what with writing this and all. But I see these romanticized views of the poor writer's life and it makes me laugh. Because I did think that was what it would be like. I had visions of a crappy apartment, of second hand clothes and dumpster diving and spending late nights in a park with like-minded intellectuals. And I thought it would be wonderfully romantic!
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, as they say. I'm still waiting for my beautiful courtesan to be moved by my words. I'm still waiting for that brilliant flash of drunken inspiration. I'm still hoping that some kind person will send a little money my way, for no reason other than my art has reached them. Oh, I know these are all just silly dreams.
But what is a starving artist but a dreamer who never lets go?
If we let go of our dreams, we wouldn't be starving anymore. But we wouldn't be artists, either. It may not be romantic, but I plan to keep on suffering for the sake of my muse. Slowly but surely I'm making those dreams of mine a reality.
And who knows? I just may find that benefactor after all.
If I'm lucky, she'll be cute. ;)
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