That Month We Wrote A Book

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue Aug 08, 2017 12:00 pm


Off course it was not actually funny at all.

But I had thought that perhaps I should see could it be made to become so. But recall that I haf been told,
and several times now, that I should seek out the benefits which might come of several months spent as
a mentalist's idiot Lady. Is this so different?

It would have been Kerrak's choice I think, laughter before abomination, and if you would scoff at taking
instructions from madness, know that before his own outrage consumed him Kerrak al'Nerun lived better
and through worse than almost anyone I haf known. And if not Kerrak's way then perhaps Elliot's, but Elliot
laughs at a thing in the way that another man would spit, Elliot would only make this thing funny so that it
could not be anything else but fit for laughter. Perhaps he would even Believe it into being so.

But Belief is not for me, and I no more want to be Elliot than he could bear to be like me.

Does it seem strange that I would look outside off myself after months spent as some one entirely else? And
yet I haf spent a year and longer than a year aproaching the question buried in that state and its causes and
its consequences, and every aproach has led me inevitably to a single and unacceptable conclusion.

Beyond any thing else, I am cautious of my simplest and most earnest desires.


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Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed Sep 20, 2017 6:27 pm



How strange that page looks with it's she and its I and it's I see what she could not.

Here is a thing then: I remember all of it, every moment or at the least so many moments, day upon day and then weeks of it,
that I confidently risk that I haf forgotten none of it and that nothing was hid from me. And why would it be? Her purpose was
not deceet or corruption (she was no cultist, after all, no Baie). She intended not to mislead bu

Another: I remember it as if it were a dream. And by this I do not mean that it was dreamlike. It was not imcemprehensable,
cows did not suddenly speak the clouds did not rain milk and soup bones. To understand (but who would want to?) set aside
the abserdity, and instead look long upon the experience. The you of the dream, still undeniably you. Same hands, same skin
same self. Same capacity to think, to reason to act --- but with motif and towards ends and with a logic utterly ajascent to
that off your waking self.

To remember, then, is to watch this self-like stranger perform a succession of gentle atrocities (and off course they were not
gentle in themselves, but consider my past and what might haf been) in acordance with a logic and toward a purpose which I
comprehend exactingly and which by my nature I despise. I might (often do) ask Why, why has she done this or that particular
thing. There is always an answer ready to be read from the moment's details.

Might it trouble me less were it all incomperhensible?
Consider that question for more than a moment and you will quickly realise how little Easy is worth.



Here, a complicating factor: he told me once that he recogn


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Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu Sep 21, 2017 10:57 am



Twelve months and then twelve months again and then there is a letter waiting at the docks, a boy who shouts You, this is
yours. Under his arm a basket of fat black butterfish and off course I thought he meant those.

Were this only a year ago I


Lists. Glenn Burnie. For my sake or for his?
or a token of familiarity, a call-back to Then, a way to say I Remember This One Funny Thing.
I smiled, and it felt like something stolen.

Impetuous: done fast, done hard, done on a whim without thought to consequence. One or all three of these things. Impulse?
Off this I am not sure and the word is such bethau ag ngwerth for him that asking is pointless. Language hopes to carve away
unfamilliarity, but without familiarity language is a hazard, it stumbles. If you think otherwise, say Impulse to Syl, say Humanity
to Glenn Burnie. See what you get back. You haf requested a definition and instead you haf learned something of a person, not
by passing unfamilliarity but abolishing it by one piece and then another. And if you had not asked? Imagine an entire conversation
founded on a curcumvention that does not exist, a misunderstanding therefore. You conclude further from your aim than you had
begun and worst, you do not even realise it.

How often did he or I say: What I mean by this is
Re writing each others definitions or else muteally creating them.

An impetuous idea: to achieve lasting change Myrken must re write it's definitions. And not in sch


I do not haf time to write here. How long must a thing from Rasazan travel to reach us here? But I write to see the words. I write to
compel order. I write because I despise the urgency, I write to defy it's insistance to reduce a thing which matters to me down to Need
and Response, the very definition (see) of mere survival.


Peeling at layers. He cant truly Believe he laid no traps.


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