WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

“The words always flowed though, somehow, as though they were hidden in some old dusty chamber of my mind, a treasure-chest of thoughts, connected, somehow, to my fingers -knowing exactly when I held a pen, or touched the keyboard- to come rolling down, like precious pearls and rubies, and be embedded in ink forever.

“Ah words– beautiful words; old words; heard words; forgotten words; dismissed words; loved words; lost words; new words; magical words; this word and that word… rushing out on paper to fulfill their destiny, to be read, to be heard, to be felt and to be honoured.

“Words can beautify the everyday ugliness, mask and sugarcoat the humdrum of routine, brighten the dull and silver the grey… Is there anything more exquisite?

“And that is precisely why the writer writes, robed in words, to be undressed by some insightful reader who beholds the raw, pure truth behind the veil of words, and loves it in all its ugliness, and all its eloquence; knowing every secret, and extracting every ounce of wisdom from it; knowing every fear, and taking heart from it; knowing every darkness, to believe in the light; and seeing every bit of reality, covered in fiction and sweet rhyme; for words connect souls, and it is only through words, that one can be vulnerable enough to be truly known, truly understood and truly loved….”

Isha Garg's avatarIshaisms

I read somewhere that one should never sit to write without an idea of what one is going to; yet ever since that really young age, when I began letting my demons out in ink, I always found myself venturing out on the journey of words without a predetermined thought, or a preconceived destination, or any clue as to what I was really on to… I do not know if that makes me a really brave or a really stupid writer- maybe both; the line is pretty thin anyway.

Maybe it was the smell of printed books, the exhilarating shuffling of pages, the feel of ink-stained fingers that goaded me on – the inner me, the core of my soul, always knowing what she was doing – I being just the physical channel.

The words always flowed though, somehow, as though they were hidden in some old dusty chamber…

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New year, same resolve, same banner

New year, same resolve, same banner
New year, same resolve, same banner.
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A Call to Stand
 
One man at war with Man’s deprecation
Calls out to all men to seek no salvation,
To pick themselves up from self-immolation,
To turn from the gods of their own creation,
To stand up and face the day —
To reclaim their birthright to say —
I am that I am, before nothing I kneel;
I mastered the fire, invented the wheel;
I cast the bells true and set them to peal;
I am Man, for whom all else is clay —
I am Man. I make my own way.
***
My fiction is here.
My paintings are here.
My art gallery is here.

And Again the Angels

And Again the Angels

Again they called to heaven
When around them rose a hell;
Again the angels came from earth
In answer to the bell.
While flesh and blood fought smoke and flame
And kept the black line manned,
Their thanks went to the god by whose
Own breath the fires were fanned.

 

***

The original “Again the Angels” is here …

For more of my published fiction — shorts, poetry, novels & scripts, available in ebook, paperback and audiobook — please visit my Amazon page.

Individualism

Individualism

A good blog post by the Hyacinth Girl, in which I’m quoted. It opens,

“Scrolling through my Twitter feed the other day, I came across this picture posted by the History in Pictures account. It’s a box of wedding rings found by liberators at a concentration camp in 1945. Each ring belonged to a person, and each person disappeared into the camps….”

http://www.thehyacinthgrrrl.com/2017/12/individualism.html

 

None more wondrous or impressive . . .

None more wondrous or impressive . . .

Never has there been a god or goddess more wondrous or impressive than the wondrous and impressive beings after whom they were modeled. Man is quite incapable, thank goodness, of inventing an entity more remarkable or exalted than himself. The gods are nothing more, nothing less, than creations molded from Man’s own characteristics, his own virtues and vices, his own qualities reconfigured and remodeled in effort to answer his own hopes, longings, fears, and uncertainties. The gods are, at best, reflections of Man’s own essence, distillations of his own actuality, glorifications of his own potential. At the end of the creative day, however, though he may fervently wish or believe otherwise, no creation of Man can be Man’s master. Though the creator may bow and worship the creation, the creation is not, and could never be, the creator’s superior. The creation can be nothing more than the creator’s servant, a means to his end. If the creator chooses to kneel before his creation, he is free to do so, but he cannot blame the creation for staring back at him in mute wonder.

~ Quent Cordair, on Idolatry

The Idolatry story opens in the twilight of the Roman Empire. As the darkening forces of mysticism descend on Western Civilization, the daughter of itinerant traders is falling fast for a local boy—the apprentice and adopted son of a sculptor. The old master, concerned for the boy’s future, recalls his years as a younger man in bustling Alexandria, where he had found the love of his life before having to flee the threat of religious persecution. Now, having finally rebuilt his life and career in a village far away, an enemy from the past reappears, threatening all he holds dear….

Parts I & II of Idolatry, *Genesis* and *A New Eden*, are now available in ebook, paperback, and audiobook editions on Amazon. Part III is being written.

 

The Dark Deeds of Night

The Dark Deeds of Night

The rain has come. The rain stopped before. It may stop again. It may not. Until the glooming wetness passes, it will weigh upon me like sackcloth as I wait here at the portal for the return of the bright and warming god. For what else can one do but show a constant and enduring faith? If a small rodent appears, I will sacrifice it so that the sun will reappear more quickly. The sun is pleased by offerings of dead rodents, a truth my ancestors have known and passed down through the ages. Until a worthy sacrifice appears, the emptiness in my soul may be assuaged now and again with communion from the human-priest’s hand, morsels of sustaining manna for which I will cry out when he passes, shuffling by, he and his pale assurances of sunny morrows and an endless cycle of seasons. But what can he and his kind know of the sacrifices required of me and my kind to keep it all turning, of the taking of life necessary for life’s return? Dutifully, quietly, I will do again what my kind have always done, knowing that the human-priests will raise their faces to the sun when the sun comes again, giving no thought or thanks to those willing to do the dark deeds of night that make the day possible. Yes, the sun will come again. Of this I will make sure. ~ Le Chat

Alive

Alive

At our local bar, sitting next to two 70-somethings who’ve met here by happenstance. He was here when we came in, wears a medical bracelet. The seat next to him is the only seat available to her. And so she sits. He’s having a glass of wine. She orders a beer. It would be rude not to introduce themselves. They ask the questions, get to know each other. Only bits and pieces of the conversation can be heard, but the emotional undertones are timeless. He used to be in a band? What instrument? Saxophone? Her husband used to play! He taught her, but she was never very good…. Heart rates rise as hopes rise. The cautious, cautious optimism. By the time he leaves, she’s revealed where and when he might run into her again. When he walks out the door, his back is a little straighter, head a little higher. She takes her time, finishes her beer.

***

Thank you!

Thank you!

Thanks so much for each and every review! “A screenplay jihadists will hate and civilized people will love…. Set in Chicago during the holiday season, the story involves a conflict between Husam, a young Muslim man who takes Islam seriously, and his younger brother Jasim. The conflict escalates after Husam is handed a heavy bag by a bearded man and gets on a bus heading downtown…. How is the conflict resolved? In an immensely satisfying way—as fans of Cordair’s work would expect.” — Daniel Wahl, The Objective Standard.  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00R8QP8NI