A storm just blew in, bringing in mystery clouds, bringing in fission, splitting me into pieces, reducing me, each part whispering to me of secret things, of dualities.
I just learned about Grant Morrison's new book, a prose history of superheroes / biography / magickal treatise called Supergods, which is coming out while I am away. I don't think I'm going to be able to wait until I get home to read it. Luckily, it's up for pre-order on iBooks.
Speaking of reading, I've never read The Gormenghast books. Quite a hole in my genre cred, I know. I just stumbled upon this little poem of Peake's, which is making me really want to investigate. Unfortunately, this one is not on iBooks, so it will have to wait a little while longer. Anyway, here's the poem ...
The vastest things are those we may not learn.
We are not taught to die, nor to be born,
Nor how to burn
With love.
How pitiful is our enforced return
To those small things we are masters of.
Damn, it got dark in here. Marvelous.
There's much to think about, and I often think better in the dark.
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