C.M. Allen's Blog
November 4, 2021
Beyond the Silver Veils
An Orwellian Lie in Techno-Apathy.
We stare, we dream less.
Trapped in microcosms of sofa cushions and curtain-darkness, often we compose ourselves unto the banishment of the screens-before-us. Depthless windows in 2D-formats, parading as engineered escapism yet, truthfully, serving only as realities of imprisonment. One upon the wall, gazing down at us, the other within our palms, gazing up at us.
You see, when we seek those digital moments of other-ness, those movements to other realms beyond our mortal knowings, what we actually embalm our brains in is the exo-fluidity of hardening fable-making veneer. Stories pre-programmed in schedules and block imaginations, triggers of posts and tv shows fired into your brain showcasing someone else’s ideas and squandering your own.
Except...beyond the immortal, invincible, indelible, intellectual infinities of the written word, that so subtly supercharge our subterranean minds with new thoughts, new pathways of logistical reason lay in wait. They never abandoned us. But without these reinforced highways we become automatons of mechanised predictability, reclining reinventions that once resembled living, breathing humans.
Yet in becoming such robotic pseudo-people, we form half-lives in vein attempts at self-fulfillment. We become biological once-functions in servitude to naught but illusion, the pageantry of televised falsehoods from which we wind narrow cords of pleasure, draw them close about the winding looms of our memory, and create new tapestries in threadbare patchwork, caught about us and providing hollow warmth. We gain nothing from that silver existence if we gaze too long at its enticing seduction, searching for Likes where often there is scorn, fulfillment that never comes.
Conclusively, if digital shackles are thrown off, used only sparingly, we might take that final plunge into self-improvement. Skills, knowledge, creation, artistic flights, communicative engagement...all of it so close yet, ironically, held so far within the palms of our hands or staring down at us from above.
Held between two gods of immortal falsity.
We are nothing when once we were something.
For more musings on the human soul, follow the search below for a subversive, outrageous, dark, hilarious, and extremely different kind of supernatural novel.
Blood and Biscuits
We stare, we dream less.
Trapped in microcosms of sofa cushions and curtain-darkness, often we compose ourselves unto the banishment of the screens-before-us. Depthless windows in 2D-formats, parading as engineered escapism yet, truthfully, serving only as realities of imprisonment. One upon the wall, gazing down at us, the other within our palms, gazing up at us.
You see, when we seek those digital moments of other-ness, those movements to other realms beyond our mortal knowings, what we actually embalm our brains in is the exo-fluidity of hardening fable-making veneer. Stories pre-programmed in schedules and block imaginations, triggers of posts and tv shows fired into your brain showcasing someone else’s ideas and squandering your own.
Except...beyond the immortal, invincible, indelible, intellectual infinities of the written word, that so subtly supercharge our subterranean minds with new thoughts, new pathways of logistical reason lay in wait. They never abandoned us. But without these reinforced highways we become automatons of mechanised predictability, reclining reinventions that once resembled living, breathing humans.
Yet in becoming such robotic pseudo-people, we form half-lives in vein attempts at self-fulfillment. We become biological once-functions in servitude to naught but illusion, the pageantry of televised falsehoods from which we wind narrow cords of pleasure, draw them close about the winding looms of our memory, and create new tapestries in threadbare patchwork, caught about us and providing hollow warmth. We gain nothing from that silver existence if we gaze too long at its enticing seduction, searching for Likes where often there is scorn, fulfillment that never comes.
Conclusively, if digital shackles are thrown off, used only sparingly, we might take that final plunge into self-improvement. Skills, knowledge, creation, artistic flights, communicative engagement...all of it so close yet, ironically, held so far within the palms of our hands or staring down at us from above.
Held between two gods of immortal falsity.
We are nothing when once we were something.
For more musings on the human soul, follow the search below for a subversive, outrageous, dark, hilarious, and extremely different kind of supernatural novel.
Blood and Biscuits
November 2, 2021
Why I Write
Writing is the key to everything I do in life.
While I spend the majority of my days either working or parenting, I find that my brain continues to wander back to the next creative thing, the next process I might manipulate using purely the power of words.
See, language is an astonishingly powerful thing. Not only does it present as a tool by which we might lever new endeavours into existence, it is our main source of communication. While, yes, we might go out on a weekend evening and see some humans attempting to communicate through urinating on walls or slurring out grandma-shaming curses, by and large our greatest asset as a species is our ability to formulate the nuances and subtleties of the spoken and written word to convey the deepest, most complex meanings without resorting to physicality or, well, urination.
We may not be the strongest animal in terms of body (I have a friend that pulled a muscle picking up milk), we are almost insultingly superior in terms of cranial development over any other creature (for example, a horse can kick our head through a wall yet, generally, the equine family finds plastic bags terrifying).
Though I could go on about humanity's communicative devices and its abilities to bend words to our will, I shall only state this as my first blog post: I am a storyteller, a creator at heart, and to truly give meaning to at least my cranial side, if not my parental, emotional spirit, I must continuously find new avenues to walk down and expand upon, and deliver new fables.
I suppose, in the end, writing is the key to my expressive intent. The legacy I shall, one day, bestow upon my children. I don't want them to remember me for great deeds or vast sums of money earned, but for good stories, books they can read to remember me by, and the pride they feel when they tell of me to others.
I am an author and a parent.Blood and Biscuits: Book One of the Supernatural Support Group
While I spend the majority of my days either working or parenting, I find that my brain continues to wander back to the next creative thing, the next process I might manipulate using purely the power of words.
See, language is an astonishingly powerful thing. Not only does it present as a tool by which we might lever new endeavours into existence, it is our main source of communication. While, yes, we might go out on a weekend evening and see some humans attempting to communicate through urinating on walls or slurring out grandma-shaming curses, by and large our greatest asset as a species is our ability to formulate the nuances and subtleties of the spoken and written word to convey the deepest, most complex meanings without resorting to physicality or, well, urination.
We may not be the strongest animal in terms of body (I have a friend that pulled a muscle picking up milk), we are almost insultingly superior in terms of cranial development over any other creature (for example, a horse can kick our head through a wall yet, generally, the equine family finds plastic bags terrifying).
Though I could go on about humanity's communicative devices and its abilities to bend words to our will, I shall only state this as my first blog post: I am a storyteller, a creator at heart, and to truly give meaning to at least my cranial side, if not my parental, emotional spirit, I must continuously find new avenues to walk down and expand upon, and deliver new fables.
I suppose, in the end, writing is the key to my expressive intent. The legacy I shall, one day, bestow upon my children. I don't want them to remember me for great deeds or vast sums of money earned, but for good stories, books they can read to remember me by, and the pride they feel when they tell of me to others.
I am an author and a parent.Blood and Biscuits: Book One of the Supernatural Support Group
