A tenyu, Kom kutrün ik ejla né ateake sona.
Sometimes, you must die in order to live again.
Ha knive ba ya kete kiyiri.
Ha knive no kiyiri.
Han knive vi kiyiri.
Ha knive kizon yüme i fa'enta anab bagdi.
Han knive no ju kiyiri.
I bought it for you.
I will buy it.
I am buying it.
I have bought from that store before.
I will not buy it.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 15, 2011
Bound and Determined, Regardless
There's absolutely nothing to write at all. I wish that I wasn't so behind. It's as if I've jsut begun all over again. By midnight tomorrow, I'm supposed to have 25,000 words written, my current count being at 19,694. I have no idea what I'm going to write. I have no diea if anyone's going to like what I have to write. I desperately want my story to be heard and known by many, so they could dive into this world with me. I feel exactly like how a person would feel when they're under pressure, except, it's pressure that I'm putting on myself. I need to keep telling myself that this stupid novel is going to be written, and written well, but I feel as though each story I am writing is written in the same, dry manner. I can't seem to use any adjectives or adverbs. I love those, a lot.
I love how descriptive they are, how they bring an expression to a piece of work that nothing else could. These stories are all action to action, without much feeling, without that pizzazz to light it up or give it an ornamental flare. It seems dry, even though there is so much action going on. How does this person feel? Why was this action done? What did the action make people feel? Who is feeling it, and why? Is there some past event that would lead up to how a person could be affected by the action? What is the smell of the action? The taste?
I am lacking figurative language, and in my department, is the entire reason for this language, these people. Everything is descriptive, everything has a sight, a taste, a sound, a touch, a smell, a feeling. It is all connected to this universal underpinning, called Om. Perhaps I'm lacking the questions that I need to be asking myself. Perhaps I just need to jump up at scream at the world and tell it that I am Michael and I am NOT going to allow myself to be deluded by myself in the thinking that this has to be perfect or impressive.
This is MY story, my novel, my people, my language, my soul, my drive, and forbid thsoe people from my sight if they end up hating what I have created. This isn't for them, this is for me. A way to cosntruct myself, my beliefs, my ideas. With this novel, I want to change the world, but I feel that if I'm not feeling it, neither will my reader. If I am not crying with my character, then I am writing it wrong. I need to scratch it, given how much I wrote, and rewrite it, and add in the Who, the What, the When, the How, and the Why... to everything! All has a reaso nand a purpose. All stems back to an original action that led into a chain reaction of cause and effect.
I am wasting away each time I write because I know that I am trudging on, rather propsering. It all seems to oserious, too stiff, too unrelaxed, which is a flaw of my own personality. I keep worrying about the word count. I keep aiming for 60,000 words, my personal goal, but it's never going to happen if I don't let this novel flow to me. Right now, within the past 10 minutes, I have written all of this, simply because I'm flowing my mind, my attitude, my thoughts. How I do get that to happen with my novel?
Am I convincing myself that this is harder than it really has to be? So what if I make a mistake, it won't be perfect, it is only a rough draft. "But it has to make sense to me," I keep telling myself. Last year, it all amde sense to me, and I pulled that novel out of thin air. The words literally came to me. This time, I am under pressure because it is a novel of something that has been my greatest focus in life for half a decade. It's all here, inside my head, and it just needs to come out. I have lightning figners, I could type and type and type, so long as I had mental content inside to be pushed out onto paper.
Sometimes, these stories come to me, most times, I have to sit down and rack my brain to figure out how it all comes together. I'm lacking this liberal feleing, this relaxed state of mind. I am worrying myself about the goal. Forget the goal, seriously. I need to focus on the content of the word, not the word content. If I don't win, so what, I've written this wonderful peice of work that could still be finished. I compelted my goal last year without any hesitation, or problems. Perhaps I need to go back and think about what was going on for me when I wrote some of those stories. Perhaps I need a refresher on the extent of my writing abilities.
As it looks right now, I am lacking in adjectives, descriptions, tone, feleings, and emotions. I am lacking in beautiful figurative language, and I think I may have ah unch as to why. In my language, I haven't really developed much figurative language. With that, it all comes from culture and language. how can I create figurative language in Anikuwinér if the culture and language isn't complete? And so that is where I'm at right now. I am striving to push out htese stories to build some tpye of culture and create words and expressions of it, but I don't want to use English ones, because those wouldn't be correct ways to say it in Kunérian tongue.
But that's the issue, isn't it? Language is supposed to be universal, so an expression in English might mean the same, but use completely different words and anecdotal origins. Funny how that happens, huh? I think, from now on, I'm going to writei n my tone of voice, the one that is of an English lover, one who has a pretty strong command of his native language. I have been so consumed by the outside world and all of the dramas of my life and consumed by thinking more than I should, that I have been essentially blocking myself from writing.
Even now, I'm tired and I'd like to sleep. I keep telling myself, "Oh, I have 4-5 thousand words to write? I'll make that up eventually," but each night I'm telling myself that. It seems that I'm evading this novel. I am torn between myself about whether I should continue or not, and if it'll matter? I've done so much, and honestly, I've been so depressed and tired lately. I've even told myself today that I'm going to quit, and that I'm done. That saddens my ears and my heart, honestly, and it makes me want to cry, but how can I fight htose feelings? I've gotten to the point where I am questioning my initial reason for doing this.
I want it to be great, but will it? What if this is my only shot? What if I write these novels, and through time, people compare how poorly-written they were compared to my next books? Is that something an author has to cope with through the years? Do readers enjoy that fact that it is indicative of how human they are? Perhaps through an author's "eyes," the readers get to watc hthe author grow up, and transform into this exceptional author? I keep thinking in the mindset of a perfectionist, and it's not that way. It's highly unrealistic. I cna't write perfect first novels and continue on that way through te last novels I write. Life doesn't work that way.
I have so much in my head that I want top ush out into the world and say, "Hey! I'm here! Do you hear what I hear? This si what I've come to learn about life. Do you get this?" I want to be able to have everyone understand what I'm saying, and get it, and people adore me for being able ot organzie that thought. And this is truly another big thing that persists on worrying me, what if what I'm trying to convey isn't put out there? What if I write my stuff, and no one gets it but me? Should I point it out very obviously, or will that seem condescending? Should I write manuals and books about the book? What exactly is the best way to write and convey something? Spelling it out perfectly simple, or will that make me look simple?
There must be an unofficial line drawn somewhere, one that only the best, successful authors know. I don't want to write something so intelligent that no one gets it, or something so strange or abnormal, that no one gets it, or something too simple that it jades my attempts, and the readers are left thinking, "That could have been so much greater..." Where... where do I begin with the right novel? How do I get this novel kicking into gear like the last? I tried writing it a couple years ago, and I failed at 3,000 words. I've already written 50,000 words, so I know I can write novels. I think my issue is that I'm psychic myself out, or I'm setting myself up for failure with my ocmplicated emotions and thoughts.
I need to open up word, have a fully ready and relaxed mind, set the mood, and just go, without any distractions. I need to be able to drifti nto my inner planet, and start channeling the very om that sleeps within. It waits to be awaken once more, that primordial expressionistic energy feuling my soul, waiting to become a radiator that pours into my fingers, into the keyboard, and on the screen. These whirling thoughts dream to be record onto paper. Theyl ong for the day when others can grace them with their sight, when they can be shared.
I was meant to write, and before I could even begin, I will have changed my destiny completely. I must fight these pensive thoughts, and just go with it, and not look back. And kick myself every time I think a negative thought. They are thinknig the great "What if?" I never thought it before, but now I see that it is VERY negative thinking, and highly detrimental to my success. No more "What if" thinking. No more telling myself that I msut do this or that. I need to jsut do something, hope for the best, and stay strong in thinking that whatever I write will be the best thing I've ever written.
I will get this novel out. This will be finished. I am destined to write, to change the world through my eyes. I am destined to know great knowledge, feel great feelings, see great sights, and believe in great beliefs. I am destined to live. I am destined to bring the deep om abck to humanity. I am destined to write until I can no longer write. I want this more than anything... I would die to bring the world to my feet for a few moments, just to hear my story. Just to know it, and gain some great peace of mind from it. I was born to live an awful life so I could speak to those in mutual understanding who have also had an awful life.
Each person I meet, no matter how cruel, torturous, or evil their story is, I can relate, and make them feel easy. I can calm them with my non-judgment and positive demeanor. I have to get these words out. I find that any hour of the day, I have to write anything, but I sit not knowign what to write. So for the first time in a long time, I'm going to just write and write and write until I can no longer write, adn see if that cures my blockage. I'm going to see if that helps me in any bit. Because before hte night's over, I will have written so much that it could have counted to wards my word count. Even now, I believe that I've written about 2,000 words. I think to myself, "Wow, Michael. You really can write. There is no block, so what are you waitign for? What is truly going on here?"
I'd sit with myself and say, "I don't know. I want this to be easy. I want this to work out and just flwo through me. i want this all to be a fantasy world where magic is the all and everything is based on an easy world." I would laughed inside and I'd know that hard work will meet me everywhere in life, and the only success I'd get with that is unnoticed success. The type of success a mother would vouch for, yet no other would. Who truly would be satisfied on a soul leve with that type of motherly affection? It empowers you at a young age, but through maturity, you find that it was an illusion all along brought on by unconditional lvoe and ab iased opinion.
I am empowered, so thank you mother and father. Aside from that, I've learned great lessons in life, I've seen great things, known great people, experienced great thing, read of great things... and even ahead of me, there is so much more I've yet to experience that I am craving. I am highly inspired, highly creative, highly intelligent... and I must prove it to the world through my "eyes," my writer's eyes. I must share my story in the form of stories. I must change the world, and in doing so, change the fate of mankind and my wallet... LOL!
I have to keep writing, not soldiering on or trudging through, because this is a sinch; a peice of cake, as they say. This is easy to me. So why am I so stumped? What is going on here? I know all the answers to these questions.. and I think, even after all of this, I'm just going to put my big boy pants on, and write. Write until I can't anymore and it's day time. I'm going to write. I must. I will. I am.
I love how descriptive they are, how they bring an expression to a piece of work that nothing else could. These stories are all action to action, without much feeling, without that pizzazz to light it up or give it an ornamental flare. It seems dry, even though there is so much action going on. How does this person feel? Why was this action done? What did the action make people feel? Who is feeling it, and why? Is there some past event that would lead up to how a person could be affected by the action? What is the smell of the action? The taste?
I am lacking figurative language, and in my department, is the entire reason for this language, these people. Everything is descriptive, everything has a sight, a taste, a sound, a touch, a smell, a feeling. It is all connected to this universal underpinning, called Om. Perhaps I'm lacking the questions that I need to be asking myself. Perhaps I just need to jump up at scream at the world and tell it that I am Michael and I am NOT going to allow myself to be deluded by myself in the thinking that this has to be perfect or impressive.
This is MY story, my novel, my people, my language, my soul, my drive, and forbid thsoe people from my sight if they end up hating what I have created. This isn't for them, this is for me. A way to cosntruct myself, my beliefs, my ideas. With this novel, I want to change the world, but I feel that if I'm not feeling it, neither will my reader. If I am not crying with my character, then I am writing it wrong. I need to scratch it, given how much I wrote, and rewrite it, and add in the Who, the What, the When, the How, and the Why... to everything! All has a reaso nand a purpose. All stems back to an original action that led into a chain reaction of cause and effect.
I am wasting away each time I write because I know that I am trudging on, rather propsering. It all seems to oserious, too stiff, too unrelaxed, which is a flaw of my own personality. I keep worrying about the word count. I keep aiming for 60,000 words, my personal goal, but it's never going to happen if I don't let this novel flow to me. Right now, within the past 10 minutes, I have written all of this, simply because I'm flowing my mind, my attitude, my thoughts. How I do get that to happen with my novel?
Am I convincing myself that this is harder than it really has to be? So what if I make a mistake, it won't be perfect, it is only a rough draft. "But it has to make sense to me," I keep telling myself. Last year, it all amde sense to me, and I pulled that novel out of thin air. The words literally came to me. This time, I am under pressure because it is a novel of something that has been my greatest focus in life for half a decade. It's all here, inside my head, and it just needs to come out. I have lightning figners, I could type and type and type, so long as I had mental content inside to be pushed out onto paper.
Sometimes, these stories come to me, most times, I have to sit down and rack my brain to figure out how it all comes together. I'm lacking this liberal feleing, this relaxed state of mind. I am worrying myself about the goal. Forget the goal, seriously. I need to focus on the content of the word, not the word content. If I don't win, so what, I've written this wonderful peice of work that could still be finished. I compelted my goal last year without any hesitation, or problems. Perhaps I need to go back and think about what was going on for me when I wrote some of those stories. Perhaps I need a refresher on the extent of my writing abilities.
As it looks right now, I am lacking in adjectives, descriptions, tone, feleings, and emotions. I am lacking in beautiful figurative language, and I think I may have ah unch as to why. In my language, I haven't really developed much figurative language. With that, it all comes from culture and language. how can I create figurative language in Anikuwinér if the culture and language isn't complete? And so that is where I'm at right now. I am striving to push out htese stories to build some tpye of culture and create words and expressions of it, but I don't want to use English ones, because those wouldn't be correct ways to say it in Kunérian tongue.
But that's the issue, isn't it? Language is supposed to be universal, so an expression in English might mean the same, but use completely different words and anecdotal origins. Funny how that happens, huh? I think, from now on, I'm going to writei n my tone of voice, the one that is of an English lover, one who has a pretty strong command of his native language. I have been so consumed by the outside world and all of the dramas of my life and consumed by thinking more than I should, that I have been essentially blocking myself from writing.
Even now, I'm tired and I'd like to sleep. I keep telling myself, "Oh, I have 4-5 thousand words to write? I'll make that up eventually," but each night I'm telling myself that. It seems that I'm evading this novel. I am torn between myself about whether I should continue or not, and if it'll matter? I've done so much, and honestly, I've been so depressed and tired lately. I've even told myself today that I'm going to quit, and that I'm done. That saddens my ears and my heart, honestly, and it makes me want to cry, but how can I fight htose feelings? I've gotten to the point where I am questioning my initial reason for doing this.
I want it to be great, but will it? What if this is my only shot? What if I write these novels, and through time, people compare how poorly-written they were compared to my next books? Is that something an author has to cope with through the years? Do readers enjoy that fact that it is indicative of how human they are? Perhaps through an author's "eyes," the readers get to watc hthe author grow up, and transform into this exceptional author? I keep thinking in the mindset of a perfectionist, and it's not that way. It's highly unrealistic. I cna't write perfect first novels and continue on that way through te last novels I write. Life doesn't work that way.
I have so much in my head that I want top ush out into the world and say, "Hey! I'm here! Do you hear what I hear? This si what I've come to learn about life. Do you get this?" I want to be able to have everyone understand what I'm saying, and get it, and people adore me for being able ot organzie that thought. And this is truly another big thing that persists on worrying me, what if what I'm trying to convey isn't put out there? What if I write my stuff, and no one gets it but me? Should I point it out very obviously, or will that seem condescending? Should I write manuals and books about the book? What exactly is the best way to write and convey something? Spelling it out perfectly simple, or will that make me look simple?
There must be an unofficial line drawn somewhere, one that only the best, successful authors know. I don't want to write something so intelligent that no one gets it, or something so strange or abnormal, that no one gets it, or something too simple that it jades my attempts, and the readers are left thinking, "That could have been so much greater..." Where... where do I begin with the right novel? How do I get this novel kicking into gear like the last? I tried writing it a couple years ago, and I failed at 3,000 words. I've already written 50,000 words, so I know I can write novels. I think my issue is that I'm psychic myself out, or I'm setting myself up for failure with my ocmplicated emotions and thoughts.
I need to open up word, have a fully ready and relaxed mind, set the mood, and just go, without any distractions. I need to be able to drifti nto my inner planet, and start channeling the very om that sleeps within. It waits to be awaken once more, that primordial expressionistic energy feuling my soul, waiting to become a radiator that pours into my fingers, into the keyboard, and on the screen. These whirling thoughts dream to be record onto paper. Theyl ong for the day when others can grace them with their sight, when they can be shared.
I was meant to write, and before I could even begin, I will have changed my destiny completely. I must fight these pensive thoughts, and just go with it, and not look back. And kick myself every time I think a negative thought. They are thinknig the great "What if?" I never thought it before, but now I see that it is VERY negative thinking, and highly detrimental to my success. No more "What if" thinking. No more telling myself that I msut do this or that. I need to jsut do something, hope for the best, and stay strong in thinking that whatever I write will be the best thing I've ever written.
I will get this novel out. This will be finished. I am destined to write, to change the world through my eyes. I am destined to know great knowledge, feel great feelings, see great sights, and believe in great beliefs. I am destined to live. I am destined to bring the deep om abck to humanity. I am destined to write until I can no longer write. I want this more than anything... I would die to bring the world to my feet for a few moments, just to hear my story. Just to know it, and gain some great peace of mind from it. I was born to live an awful life so I could speak to those in mutual understanding who have also had an awful life.
Each person I meet, no matter how cruel, torturous, or evil their story is, I can relate, and make them feel easy. I can calm them with my non-judgment and positive demeanor. I have to get these words out. I find that any hour of the day, I have to write anything, but I sit not knowign what to write. So for the first time in a long time, I'm going to just write and write and write until I can no longer write, adn see if that cures my blockage. I'm going to see if that helps me in any bit. Because before hte night's over, I will have written so much that it could have counted to wards my word count. Even now, I believe that I've written about 2,000 words. I think to myself, "Wow, Michael. You really can write. There is no block, so what are you waitign for? What is truly going on here?"
I'd sit with myself and say, "I don't know. I want this to be easy. I want this to work out and just flwo through me. i want this all to be a fantasy world where magic is the all and everything is based on an easy world." I would laughed inside and I'd know that hard work will meet me everywhere in life, and the only success I'd get with that is unnoticed success. The type of success a mother would vouch for, yet no other would. Who truly would be satisfied on a soul leve with that type of motherly affection? It empowers you at a young age, but through maturity, you find that it was an illusion all along brought on by unconditional lvoe and ab iased opinion.
I am empowered, so thank you mother and father. Aside from that, I've learned great lessons in life, I've seen great things, known great people, experienced great thing, read of great things... and even ahead of me, there is so much more I've yet to experience that I am craving. I am highly inspired, highly creative, highly intelligent... and I must prove it to the world through my "eyes," my writer's eyes. I must share my story in the form of stories. I must change the world, and in doing so, change the fate of mankind and my wallet... LOL!
I have to keep writing, not soldiering on or trudging through, because this is a sinch; a peice of cake, as they say. This is easy to me. So why am I so stumped? What is going on here? I know all the answers to these questions.. and I think, even after all of this, I'm just going to put my big boy pants on, and write. Write until I can't anymore and it's day time. I'm going to write. I must. I will. I am.
Nov 14, 2011
At 19,694 words-- Posime li n'a kalemun na Kasét
YESSS! I've finally gotten to writing the ïtïmi'a of Zanguin, the mythology of the planet, Zanguin. It has been a long time in the making, and finally, for my beloved www.nanowrimo.org, I am finally writing the cultural, artistic, and expressionistic history of the Aniku. Here, below, if an excerpt of the séto'k of Kasét, the mytho-story of Kasét, god of messages and of language.
Posime li n'a kalemun na Kasét
( Kasét's discovery of the runes )
The gods and goddesses of the Olde World had always communicated telepathically, never in written form or orally. They figured that they were gods and they did not have to record history, they did not have to produce sound, they did not have to write mathematics, they did not have to send letters, or write to people because they were gods. They could send a faithful messenger who would produce telepathic communication thought for thought. A god could know any number of things by looking or solve any mathematical expression in their head. History seemed to be written down for them in a higher form of consciousness that seemed to merge together into Om.
The Aniku and the Umanla had no idea of what a writing system was, nor did they know what runes were. Before the time of the kalemun, mortal and immortal alike would use herbs, meditation, dance, and other forms to foresee and divine. Symbols which stood for parts of a word were foreign in thought, and pointless considering that the gods had their own language of communication, one of pure thought.
As the ages procured great dramas, one god simply could not take his thoughts from the world below. He saw great wars, triumphs, hardships, beginnings, ends, crying, laughing. It puzzled him how the Aniku could face so many obstacles, yet still get back up and try again. It left a soft spot in his heart that he knew no other god would understand. The Umanla had no hardships, everything was concise, logical, simple, open, and easy. As Kasét observed the Aniku, he felt sad that he couldn't speak like the Aniku.
As he watched below through the clouds, he saw the joy of language. One could produce a piece of words that stood for so much, yet with telepathy, all was known, nothing was hidden. One could create an artifact that would journey through time and its story would be lost, those who uncover it to create their own story, and tell it through the ages. It was illogical and untrue, but from that chaos, there was joy to be had. Communicating by thought all the time seemed boring and less whimsicle than the poetry of the Aniku.
The gods were often dry, prompt, concise, logical, and artless. There were never any dramas, never any fun to be had, without sound, there was no music, no laughter, no individualism, no secrets. He understood, as a god of his own nature, how chaotic and cumbersome all of that could be. Misunderstandings and truly epic dramas could unfold within the gods as he saw within the humans. Given his background in thought, he still wasn't convinced that any of that was truly a bad thing.
"The others would call this insane," Kasét thought. As he saw the Aniku painting, singing, speaking, expressing, he wanted to also do these things. He had to find a way to get them to understand so he became a mortal.
He could not go without secrets, nor could he wait long enough before the gods figured out his plan and tried to stop him. In order to remedy the potential situation, he split himself in two, one in god form, and one in mortal form. The other half would stay in the heavens as normal and have no prior knowledge of the plan while the other lived the life of a mortal.
Kasét meditated and mediated that night. During long hours, he discovered the Kalemun. Each letter would stand for a symbol. When the symbols were put in specific orders, it produced thoughts that could be roughly understood. He wrote down these symbols on parchment paper, and asked his twin to take the letter to Ipdénu. With this letter, he left a key that would help one to understand what the letter said, and he instructed his twin not to read this letter and put it away until many years had passed and word from Ïnünot came about a mortal in his image.
The twin did as so, and Kasét lived a long mortal life. When he finally came to Ipdénu, Ïnünot was highly confused. This mortal had no mortal soul, no mortal spirit, it was as if he were a god of some sort. He did not remember a thing about being a god or his plan. Ïnünot sent to the heavens to Kasét, the messenger of gods. Kasét did not invite the otehr gods, and kept it private, going straight to Ipdénu. When he came down, he greeted them all and presented his mortal twin the letter which he wrote long ago.
In this letter, it explained everything in illumination, as well as giving the mortal half the power to rejoin as one with his twin.
"I lived a long, long life as a mortal," Kasét explained. Ïnünot knew very well what mortal life was like, as well as immortal life. He was impressed that a god would take it upon himself to do so many great things in the name of understanding, yet he feared the fate of the gods. Before Kasét's experience as a mortal, gods were perfect beings. They were seen as that which embodies all that the imperfect Aniku did not. He explained to Kasét that perfection in nature was key, and that the very threads and seams of the world could be in danger.
At last, Kasét began to reconsider his tales, though it couldn't be rewritten now. He had already follwoed through with the plan, but he knew in the back of his heart, that there was something worth while in his plan.
"Lord of Ipdénu," Kasét began, "You have seen mortal upno mrotal come and go through your realm. you have learned by their stories and your observations what it is to be an Aniku, but it is far different, for I empathize with your observing. I, too, have observed and I know of their workings. But I have also done something great. I have lived as one, laughed as one, felt the pain of losing my mother, have birthed children, have soldiered onward even when the world seemed so dark, I have painted, I have sung, I have danced, I have gone to great lengths to protect my family.
"I have lived this mortal life, and I would do it again again and again. The Umanla, we are not like these mortals. We are perfect, but we are dry. We do not find enjoyment from these animated beings. We do our work and have no leisure. We have endless energy, but why must we never fall? If we never fall, how can we learn to appreciate how wonderful it is to be a part of Nagét'ha?"
"They are so various. Soem are smart, some are stupid. Some are wicked, some are humbly kind. Because of their spoken language, they have the option to share their thoughts, they are able to invest their own thoughts into objects, they are able to create whimsical stories.. they are able to live in such a dynamic, unique way. This language of theirs, it allows them truest, individual expressino which could mean many words to some, or little to others.
"One can speak the same thought expression to many denominations of their kind and it could mean different things to each. This very concept is foreign of an idea to us gods. Why do you think that is? Because language is a beating heart of its own. Language is its own life, and it cosntantly grows, evolves, and changes, much like Zanguin herself.
"Tell me good lord, how can we gods find deeper meaning out of this world while coexisting with these humans if we do not understand them? How can we be perfect if we do not conceive imperfection? That, in itself, is a contradiction."
Ïnünot listened intently to his monologue. He learned of his mortal story during passing, but from the telepathy of a god, it was different. It made much more sense as it was clearer and from the perspective of one who spoke the same language as he.
"I still worry, Kasét, that once they learn language and the Aniku way, once they learn what it's like to be imperfect, that it will taint them."
"Look upon me and you tell me if I am tainted, if I am lethargic, if I will not do work. Part of perfection is learning how to conquer imperfection. Isn't that why the Aniku come and go? Is that not why they live life after life to learn what it is like to be perfect?"
Ïnünot was impressed. He smiled at his passionate ramblings, and he felt that he could trust the fate of the Umanla in his hands. Ïnünot knew very well what mortal life was like, the whys and hows of it all, he knew very well what the dance of the cosmos had in its vaults. Hearing Kasét's story gave him hope that the gods would be able to handle the mortal tongue, simply for the fact that one stood before him who had firsthand experience. In a way, he was excited for this new fate.
"Mortal life is intended as an ultimate learning experience, one that teaches many stories that even gods cannot comprehend. We are all but a facet of Nagét'ha, so we must learn of each other in nondestructive ways. I have much to ponder, and much power to grant us with the voice of the living."
After long consideration, Ïnünot decided to help Kasét teach this language to the gods for he thought that they could benefit greatly from this learning experience, as well as influence the Aniku for all time. He knew that giving the gods a mortal tongue would mean that they were mortal in some aspects. They would need food and drink as the mortals did, and without these basic requirements, they would cease to be.
Given the fright and potential risk along the road, Ïnünot got to work. He thought of a plan that would give the gods vocal chords with which to speak. He went through Ipdénu, scrounging up bodies and pulling out the necessary components to produce the mortal form. He went to his chliptu, a large cauldron which things would be added to create magic, and added these parts togethe along with the leaves of a salad.
"Go to the heavens and prepare a feast in honor of my visit. Toss the salad with these leaves," he instructed.
Kasét went immediately to the heavens and put together a celebration for Ïnünot's surprise visit. Upon eating their salads, the gods were able to produce thought into oral communication. Many of them were highly confused, alarmed, and panicked. Kasét explained to them his story and many of them were won over by how beautiful his tale sounded. Some of them, now learning how to speak, set to Zanguin to study the Aniku. As they did this, they became more like them. They found themselves having personalities, dreams, goals, expressing themselves, lying, betraying, crying, laughing, just as the Aniku had done.
As a gift to the Aniku, Kasét went to Zanguin and left his runes with the children he bore from his mortal life. As time grew, they spread the runes and written language was slowly evolving. His children became know nas great scribes, who invented Mixamue with the help of Kasét. Now, the story of their foresight and divination comes from another séto'k, and the discovery of Wühimue is Güwümue is another séto'k.
Kasét is always remembered as the god of language and writing, as well as reveered for his great visionary thinking, his ability to empathize, and his ability to climb any mountain, no matter how dangerous. It was from Kasét that the link between god and mortal became, and it is by his doings that united them all and gave deep om to their somewhat disconnected existence.
Posime li n'a kalemun na Kasét
( Kasét's discovery of the runes )
The gods and goddesses of the Olde World had always communicated telepathically, never in written form or orally. They figured that they were gods and they did not have to record history, they did not have to produce sound, they did not have to write mathematics, they did not have to send letters, or write to people because they were gods. They could send a faithful messenger who would produce telepathic communication thought for thought. A god could know any number of things by looking or solve any mathematical expression in their head. History seemed to be written down for them in a higher form of consciousness that seemed to merge together into Om.
The Aniku and the Umanla had no idea of what a writing system was, nor did they know what runes were. Before the time of the kalemun, mortal and immortal alike would use herbs, meditation, dance, and other forms to foresee and divine. Symbols which stood for parts of a word were foreign in thought, and pointless considering that the gods had their own language of communication, one of pure thought.
As the ages procured great dramas, one god simply could not take his thoughts from the world below. He saw great wars, triumphs, hardships, beginnings, ends, crying, laughing. It puzzled him how the Aniku could face so many obstacles, yet still get back up and try again. It left a soft spot in his heart that he knew no other god would understand. The Umanla had no hardships, everything was concise, logical, simple, open, and easy. As Kasét observed the Aniku, he felt sad that he couldn't speak like the Aniku.
As he watched below through the clouds, he saw the joy of language. One could produce a piece of words that stood for so much, yet with telepathy, all was known, nothing was hidden. One could create an artifact that would journey through time and its story would be lost, those who uncover it to create their own story, and tell it through the ages. It was illogical and untrue, but from that chaos, there was joy to be had. Communicating by thought all the time seemed boring and less whimsicle than the poetry of the Aniku.
The gods were often dry, prompt, concise, logical, and artless. There were never any dramas, never any fun to be had, without sound, there was no music, no laughter, no individualism, no secrets. He understood, as a god of his own nature, how chaotic and cumbersome all of that could be. Misunderstandings and truly epic dramas could unfold within the gods as he saw within the humans. Given his background in thought, he still wasn't convinced that any of that was truly a bad thing.
"The others would call this insane," Kasét thought. As he saw the Aniku painting, singing, speaking, expressing, he wanted to also do these things. He had to find a way to get them to understand so he became a mortal.
He could not go without secrets, nor could he wait long enough before the gods figured out his plan and tried to stop him. In order to remedy the potential situation, he split himself in two, one in god form, and one in mortal form. The other half would stay in the heavens as normal and have no prior knowledge of the plan while the other lived the life of a mortal.
Kasét meditated and mediated that night. During long hours, he discovered the Kalemun. Each letter would stand for a symbol. When the symbols were put in specific orders, it produced thoughts that could be roughly understood. He wrote down these symbols on parchment paper, and asked his twin to take the letter to Ipdénu. With this letter, he left a key that would help one to understand what the letter said, and he instructed his twin not to read this letter and put it away until many years had passed and word from Ïnünot came about a mortal in his image.
The twin did as so, and Kasét lived a long mortal life. When he finally came to Ipdénu, Ïnünot was highly confused. This mortal had no mortal soul, no mortal spirit, it was as if he were a god of some sort. He did not remember a thing about being a god or his plan. Ïnünot sent to the heavens to Kasét, the messenger of gods. Kasét did not invite the otehr gods, and kept it private, going straight to Ipdénu. When he came down, he greeted them all and presented his mortal twin the letter which he wrote long ago.
In this letter, it explained everything in illumination, as well as giving the mortal half the power to rejoin as one with his twin.
"I lived a long, long life as a mortal," Kasét explained. Ïnünot knew very well what mortal life was like, as well as immortal life. He was impressed that a god would take it upon himself to do so many great things in the name of understanding, yet he feared the fate of the gods. Before Kasét's experience as a mortal, gods were perfect beings. They were seen as that which embodies all that the imperfect Aniku did not. He explained to Kasét that perfection in nature was key, and that the very threads and seams of the world could be in danger.
At last, Kasét began to reconsider his tales, though it couldn't be rewritten now. He had already follwoed through with the plan, but he knew in the back of his heart, that there was something worth while in his plan.
"Lord of Ipdénu," Kasét began, "You have seen mortal upno mrotal come and go through your realm. you have learned by their stories and your observations what it is to be an Aniku, but it is far different, for I empathize with your observing. I, too, have observed and I know of their workings. But I have also done something great. I have lived as one, laughed as one, felt the pain of losing my mother, have birthed children, have soldiered onward even when the world seemed so dark, I have painted, I have sung, I have danced, I have gone to great lengths to protect my family.
"I have lived this mortal life, and I would do it again again and again. The Umanla, we are not like these mortals. We are perfect, but we are dry. We do not find enjoyment from these animated beings. We do our work and have no leisure. We have endless energy, but why must we never fall? If we never fall, how can we learn to appreciate how wonderful it is to be a part of Nagét'ha?"
"They are so various. Soem are smart, some are stupid. Some are wicked, some are humbly kind. Because of their spoken language, they have the option to share their thoughts, they are able to invest their own thoughts into objects, they are able to create whimsical stories.. they are able to live in such a dynamic, unique way. This language of theirs, it allows them truest, individual expressino which could mean many words to some, or little to others.
"One can speak the same thought expression to many denominations of their kind and it could mean different things to each. This very concept is foreign of an idea to us gods. Why do you think that is? Because language is a beating heart of its own. Language is its own life, and it cosntantly grows, evolves, and changes, much like Zanguin herself.
"Tell me good lord, how can we gods find deeper meaning out of this world while coexisting with these humans if we do not understand them? How can we be perfect if we do not conceive imperfection? That, in itself, is a contradiction."
Ïnünot listened intently to his monologue. He learned of his mortal story during passing, but from the telepathy of a god, it was different. It made much more sense as it was clearer and from the perspective of one who spoke the same language as he.
"I still worry, Kasét, that once they learn language and the Aniku way, once they learn what it's like to be imperfect, that it will taint them."
"Look upon me and you tell me if I am tainted, if I am lethargic, if I will not do work. Part of perfection is learning how to conquer imperfection. Isn't that why the Aniku come and go? Is that not why they live life after life to learn what it is like to be perfect?"
Ïnünot was impressed. He smiled at his passionate ramblings, and he felt that he could trust the fate of the Umanla in his hands. Ïnünot knew very well what mortal life was like, the whys and hows of it all, he knew very well what the dance of the cosmos had in its vaults. Hearing Kasét's story gave him hope that the gods would be able to handle the mortal tongue, simply for the fact that one stood before him who had firsthand experience. In a way, he was excited for this new fate.
"Mortal life is intended as an ultimate learning experience, one that teaches many stories that even gods cannot comprehend. We are all but a facet of Nagét'ha, so we must learn of each other in nondestructive ways. I have much to ponder, and much power to grant us with the voice of the living."
After long consideration, Ïnünot decided to help Kasét teach this language to the gods for he thought that they could benefit greatly from this learning experience, as well as influence the Aniku for all time. He knew that giving the gods a mortal tongue would mean that they were mortal in some aspects. They would need food and drink as the mortals did, and without these basic requirements, they would cease to be.
Given the fright and potential risk along the road, Ïnünot got to work. He thought of a plan that would give the gods vocal chords with which to speak. He went through Ipdénu, scrounging up bodies and pulling out the necessary components to produce the mortal form. He went to his chliptu, a large cauldron which things would be added to create magic, and added these parts togethe along with the leaves of a salad.
"Go to the heavens and prepare a feast in honor of my visit. Toss the salad with these leaves," he instructed.
Kasét went immediately to the heavens and put together a celebration for Ïnünot's surprise visit. Upon eating their salads, the gods were able to produce thought into oral communication. Many of them were highly confused, alarmed, and panicked. Kasét explained to them his story and many of them were won over by how beautiful his tale sounded. Some of them, now learning how to speak, set to Zanguin to study the Aniku. As they did this, they became more like them. They found themselves having personalities, dreams, goals, expressing themselves, lying, betraying, crying, laughing, just as the Aniku had done.
As a gift to the Aniku, Kasét went to Zanguin and left his runes with the children he bore from his mortal life. As time grew, they spread the runes and written language was slowly evolving. His children became know nas great scribes, who invented Mixamue with the help of Kasét. Now, the story of their foresight and divination comes from another séto'k, and the discovery of Wühimue is Güwümue is another séto'k.
Kasét is always remembered as the god of language and writing, as well as reveered for his great visionary thinking, his ability to empathize, and his ability to climb any mountain, no matter how dangerous. It was from Kasét that the link between god and mortal became, and it is by his doings that united them all and gave deep om to their somewhat disconnected existence.
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