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chandri's Journal

Name:
Chandri MacLeod
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I am... a twenty-something geek living in the urban rainforest of Greater Vancouver, a geek of geek upbringing, and have understandable difficulty relating to (or evidencing patience with) relatively normal people on a regular basis. The closest I get to religion is believing that being creative is a duty as well as a delightful curse; people who can change others' minds have to be careful how they change them, because there's a reason tyrants tend to murder poets.

Er... grew up in fandom, and actually remember a time before blogs. Read fic, write fic, and have been struggling for nearly a decade to finish a coherent novel. (RECENT SUCCESS! Currently in panic-and-hair-tearing frustration stage of editing into appropriate shape to show to agents.)

Am a Writer of urban fantasy, mostly, and would like to make a living doing it... mostly dream of getting just famous enough to build a little house in the middle of nowhere, set up a T1 connection, and be able to fly anywhere I want to visit my friends, whenever I want (or better yet, fly them to me). This would make me endlessly happy. All I need is tea, chocolate, the Internet, and at-least-remote contact with my weird little tribe.

Maybe a dog. :)


We are questioned by
and bemuse
those in greater number who,
for the most part,
are content to sleep;
alone, untied,
in a small,
unwindowed space.

Our bright, hot,
always, unwavering
agony
seems
too much to bear,
for long,
short of breaking.

And yet, we feed it,
spark it,
give it sun,
to grow and choke us
into betraying ourselves
as ourselves:
malcontent,
undesirable,
excessive.

And we tell them that it is
that we must,
that we must love,
and hate, sometimes,
as they do,
from that place
beyond thought
and numbers -
unwillingly,
and painfully,
and joyfully.

Burning alive,
we sometimes tell them,
is the sole avenue
of those somehow
righteous
and condemned.

It is, we are
driven to say,
a better thing
to blaze,
in great and famous
short-lived frustration
that makes a cloud of smoke
seven stories high,
than to smoulder,
slowly dwindling
to an air-starved cinder,
which quietly,
guiltily,
will wink out
like stars
at daybreak.


P.S. Watch Sanctuary.

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