Hexagons and Poetry
I am in DC visiting Aaron, Miriam, and their wonderful crazy kids.
Miriam's brother graciously offered to let me visit his home during the day while he and his wife are away so that I can write!
Family!
It's awesome stuff.
I have so much to say, so I don't have a lot to say. I think that experience is pretty common: as more and more thoughts clamor, it's harder to choose which one(s) to articulate.
Meadowvale is progressing nicely. Last week's update was delectable (in my opinion). I really enjoyed the scathing hatred between Rrraktotrrraka and Chirrratka. I'm still debating with myself whether I should modify the lizards' names to make them more approachable, but, for now, I've decided I'll just give them nicknames like the librarian, the slaver, the mad emperor.
In other other news, I miss poetry: real, live poetry. Not Jesus Jingles or Heathen Homilies. Let me explain briefly.
By Jesus Jingles, I mean the repetitive, clichéd counterparts to the Christiany Chords.
Here is a great image that clarifies quite well what I mean.
When I say poetry, I do not mean Jesus Jingles.
By Heathen Homilies, I do not mean anything too exciting. These complement the Jesus Jingles. They are less repetitive, but they are typically still devoid of thoughtful literature.
Here are a few great examples. Not all of those are completely horrendous, but they're not compelling literature—not even to mention compelling poetry.
When I say poetry, I do not mean Heathen Homilies.
Perhaps I am just ignorant. Perhaps I am just arrogant. But it seems that I am not the only one who has felt the decline of poetry. Most often, I hear people say they just don't like poetry or they just don't understand poetry. Most often, this is because they have not encountered real poetry.
This is similar to the tricky question of asking an atheist to "tell me about the God you don't believe in. I probably don't believe in him either."
Tell me about the poetry you don't like. I probably don't like it either.
I miss poetry. The kind that wasn't too ashamed to rhyme. The kind that wasn't too lazy to be structured. The kind that wasn't too pretentious to make sense. I miss the poetry that considered others, considered the outside, considered things from other people's or other creatures' perspectives. I miss poetry, which is one of the reasons I had made a habit of writing poetry. However, lately, I've been preoccupied with Meadowvale.
With that being said, I believe it's time I switch over.
Toodle pip.
Miriam's brother graciously offered to let me visit his home during the day while he and his wife are away so that I can write!
Family!
It's awesome stuff.
I have so much to say, so I don't have a lot to say. I think that experience is pretty common: as more and more thoughts clamor, it's harder to choose which one(s) to articulate.
Meadowvale is progressing nicely. Last week's update was delectable (in my opinion). I really enjoyed the scathing hatred between Rrraktotrrraka and Chirrratka. I'm still debating with myself whether I should modify the lizards' names to make them more approachable, but, for now, I've decided I'll just give them nicknames like the librarian, the slaver, the mad emperor.
In other other news, I miss poetry: real, live poetry. Not Jesus Jingles or Heathen Homilies. Let me explain briefly.
By Jesus Jingles, I mean the repetitive, clichéd counterparts to the Christiany Chords.
Here is a great image that clarifies quite well what I mean.
When I say poetry, I do not mean Jesus Jingles.
By Heathen Homilies, I do not mean anything too exciting. These complement the Jesus Jingles. They are less repetitive, but they are typically still devoid of thoughtful literature.
Here are a few great examples. Not all of those are completely horrendous, but they're not compelling literature—not even to mention compelling poetry.
When I say poetry, I do not mean Heathen Homilies.
Perhaps I am just ignorant. Perhaps I am just arrogant. But it seems that I am not the only one who has felt the decline of poetry. Most often, I hear people say they just don't like poetry or they just don't understand poetry. Most often, this is because they have not encountered real poetry.
This is similar to the tricky question of asking an atheist to "tell me about the God you don't believe in. I probably don't believe in him either."
Tell me about the poetry you don't like. I probably don't like it either.
I miss poetry. The kind that wasn't too ashamed to rhyme. The kind that wasn't too lazy to be structured. The kind that wasn't too pretentious to make sense. I miss the poetry that considered others, considered the outside, considered things from other people's or other creatures' perspectives. I miss poetry, which is one of the reasons I had made a habit of writing poetry. However, lately, I've been preoccupied with Meadowvale.
With that being said, I believe it's time I switch over.
Toodle pip.
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