slaughts

The Bristol Scale...

…is something I didn’t actually really need to know about, but now, unfortunately, I shall never be able to forget.

Thank you, Clusterflock, and especially you, Cindy Scroggins, for making my quiet little breakfast moment alone in the office this morning such a delight.

(Oh, and if, daring Internetizen, you actually clicked on that link to “Nessie”, you will have to read through all the comments below the post to figure out that it is NOT what it seems.  Not that the explanation makes it any better.)

Susannah Breslin v. Rainer Maria Rilke

She writes “The Reverse Cowgirl Blog“… he wrote “The Duino Elegies” and “Sonnets to Orpheus.”

He wrote “Letters To A Young Poet”:

Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

She wrote “Letter To A Young Writer”:

Don’t. It’s just that simple. Pick something else. Don’t do it. Go become a rug cleaner like your mother suggested. Writing is a hideous, torturous art fit for expert masochists and idealist losers. Learn a trade. Marry a cougar. Go away and leave me the few jobs that remain. You little shit.

She then goes on…

So, if you insist on becoming a writer, against my wishes, do this. Do something different. Most writers can’t write. Most journalists are shit. Go where no one else will go. Write what no one else will write. Tell the stories nobody wants to hear. Write for love. Do gigs for free. Stop churning out the same boring fucking copy that your peers are dutifully filing like a bunch of self-congratulating monkeys and find out what “beyond the pale” really means.

Hmmmmmm…. bit of a toss-up, I’d say.