tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20160718711865190422012-01-23T08:38:52.181-05:00Welcome. The following key may aid you in your navigation of the Smithy's various scribbles... <br> SF: Short Fiction P: Poem R: Review NF: Non-fiction.J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.comBlogger431100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-9163448156487494952012-01-20T17:02:00.000-05:002012-01-21T00:16:33.628-05:00

www.thebestcolleges.org recently numbered the college from which I undergraduated, William & Mary, among the overall “Top Five” in the United States. W&M normally ranks highly, but this is our highest unqualified ranking to date for quite a number of years – not counting ye olden days when it was just us and Harvard. Normally, alums greet such news with cheering – but I was disappointed

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-63403868169310798422012-01-05T16:48:00.003-05:002012-01-05T16:49:37.650-05:00

Written for - though not currently appearing on - Lea Hannah's blog Eat.Grow.Live. Once upon a time, People held the idea of hospitality in such high esteem that if, say, your sworn enemy came to your home in disguise, and you invited him in (which you would do, of course, because you would invite in any and every traveling stranger in need of food and shelter) and then, say, your best

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-22483419166846413332011-12-06T10:15:00.001-05:002011-12-06T13:14:44.508-05:00

My mind has become crowded with Venice Its streets spoke out through my skull, (As I'm sure you can see) Labyrinthing prayers In passageways shadowed between windowed stonework Whose terminus is often in water, where echoes die away I've no gondola to send them on Past the quiet, past the lattices, past the forgetfulness Which requires that I retrace Curves to the square. Beside me

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-24331143290749413902011-11-16T14:27:00.000-05:002011-11-16T14:27:32.687-05:00

Previously posted to my DeviantArt page, along with an illustration. *           *           * The Indarin say that when the Wizard of the Waterwood wished to select his heir, he summoned his three disciples, that he might set them a task which would judge between them. On his bed in the mere the Wizard lay, wizened and old beyond count of years, with his gray beard-tangles clambering down the

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-47341641360713657802011-11-01T12:09:00.021-04:002011-11-01T12:19:06.361-04:00

I do this kind of thing from time to time, just to keep limber.  Wrote this awhile ago, typed it up last week. A Forest Described The forests were dark green, elegantly replete with tall firs so that the young leaves of oak, rowan, beech, maple and poplar could not cheer their sobriety, but instead only sombered further the forest floor, far below. Where the sunlight did successfully

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-72544697741934079262011-04-19T12:26:00.001-04:002011-11-01T12:32:14.860-04:00

A murder of crows is all about me I cannot think my way through the mutter Of their wings. They sit Hunched half in flight amongst the trees Outside my window. They wing over My car on every road. My grandfather Had a crow carved in the top of his cane – Its eye watched me grow up from between his fat wrinkled knuckles. It has always been crows for me. I cannot possibly write today. Never

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-19959743726394118232011-03-17T21:24:00.000-04:002011-03-17T21:24:49.118-04:00

For as real as it felt, I may as well have been on a set, on a dark stage.  Two black windows with dark red velvet cushions on the windowseats framed by three lengths of matching curtain had become the background.  A wall perpendicular intersected the windows' plane just to the left, and in front of the windowseat was a high table of wrought-iron garden style that you might just as easily have

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When I was a boy...long ago Men working by command of the magistrate from a city so far away its grandeur was legendary came and built part of the King's Highway, so that it ran past our village, not three miles distant. I remember It was our favorite subject for all the months the work of smoothing earth and laying cobbled stone atop was in view of the village, and then more besides. Long

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                     IPoliceman-car waits in the tall grass between directions, coils thrummingremains of a fresh kill nearbymangled deer and crumpled hoodyellow lights signaling distressattract its attention; purring, itwinds its way across the highwayflashing blue ears pricked:authorized vehicles only... Authorized vehicles only, on the next hilla convocation of tractors,low and still with

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-54548251573796225142010-10-14T10:34:00.002-04:002010-10-14T10:44:59.512-04:00

One chilly Autumn's day, the Metalmancer was busily at work crafting things in his dark laboratory deep underground, when the noise of a great weeping and lament from someplace not very far away, yet not very near, began to disturb him at his work. It was the fairies who lived in the woods that grew above him, lamenting the coming of winter, as was their yearly custom. The Metalmancer did not

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-54676962406286273442010-05-27T17:35:00.006-04:002010-05-27T17:43:59.851-04:00

you were there and you rememberhow it was: that high room with the tall chairsand bar and open windowsshe was there: standing at the window,taken by the sunset's glory.when night settled in velvet folds she would be ours;'til then she was just a small soft smile, a murmured reply,a curve of close-cropped head, a sip of somber wine,and a faraway gaze brimming with beheld beauty. you rememberhe was

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-32840503507433854222010-05-17T21:02:00.001-04:002010-05-17T21:04:00.949-04:00

Blank pages are twin-edged: brimming with unfocused potential, yet so serene in their purposeless virginity as to numb and daunt any immediate creativity that confronts them. They grin at writers like clever idiots, at once taunting us with the knowledge that we might make them anything and overwhelming us with half-imagined examples of what “anything” might be. Woe to the writer who seizes

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-40695018730882397442010-01-25T17:49:00.005-05:002012-01-23T08:38:52.189-05:00

Was it only a puddleA puddle in the wheel-rut,In the gutter by the waysideThat fired back my lantern-light like a retortAnd my own quavering faceLike an accusation, “There goes a boy”“A useless, silly creature” Were they only wheel-rutsMimicking the furrowed shoulders of a bare-backed farmerWho stoops to clear the path of his plowUpon the spine of such a giant do I treadWith bloodied feet

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-21816820290508782062009-07-09T00:55:00.005-04:002009-08-08T22:58:36.868-04:00

Minds have moved like long-legged flies upon silence;Mine soars against the singeing, screaming, smoking chords that areVying with the headwind to fray the spider-strands spun across my open window, whileInexorably behind me come the endless windings and doublings of glimmer-pale and twinkling-yellow like the glowworm, hero’s-bane.The sky ahead is slashed with cloudand I spin a meditative egg-sac

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-41985047740542722132008-11-17T18:45:00.003-05:002011-12-06T10:59:07.669-05:00

Published at http://www.firstprinciplesjournal.com/print.aspx?article=1121&loc=b&type=cbbp Enjoy!

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-90759910888284452322008-11-12T00:21:00.008-05:002011-10-31T21:59:32.699-04:00

Niata’s Garden for Charles de Lint, and D. H. Lawrencefor my Grandma& for anyone who has ever tended a garden with me 1 The garden is what ultimately sold me on that particular boarding house. I almost walked past the place, the first time I was down here – jet-lagged, trying to sort out the bus schedule of a new city while keeping the addresses I’d found on craig’s list (but neglected

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-6199138889797566452008-10-31T21:56:00.000-04:002011-10-31T21:58:00.953-04:00

seeing you again was likerecalling some boyish trovewith all of the emotion thatthe rediscovery of an empty beetle-shell,dark and shiny, might inspire I could not have left you whereI found you for love of my plans to fill this hollow carapace with superglueto remake you Whole and hopefullyto stick you to me in the processand then maybe display you on a fine chain,exotic scarab upon my chambered

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-79495460099282265482008-07-05T12:53:00.003-04:002008-07-05T12:59:03.694-04:00

Friends, a great story is slowly forming in my head (like a cold front). I am slowly writing things down as passages suggest themselves to me, and I hope that I will be able to begin real work on it soon. What follows may eventually make up part of the preface.Many of us have, I think, been among the blessed. It happens when you are walking slowly through the woods or a downtown district full

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-7670719774369233822008-06-20T01:12:00.002-04:002008-06-20T01:30:17.845-04:00

Normally I don’t go for ‘checkout aisle’ magazines. At their best, they manage to be tragically amusing. The same 30 (or so) articles rotate from cover to cover: better sex, Hollywood gossip, fashion do’s, fashion don’ts, better sex again, lose weight fast this way, [gain it right back again with this] tasty recipe, better hair, relationship advice. Maybe there’s some good stuff between the

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-34405143989762834412008-04-26T01:32:00.002-04:002008-04-26T01:34:53.156-04:00

I will know you still when once we were young:In my parlor, your graying hair pulled back into a bun,We will talk, and smoke, and laugh, and after you've goneIn secret I'll slowly weep for the you you couldHave perhaps become

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-33363580599215805852008-04-02T11:45:00.001-04:002008-04-02T11:45:49.124-04:00

Your dress was like a weeping cherryMy coat like eucalyptus,When we rejoiced in this simplicity:Drinking water from one brimming gourd.

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-22329481565728671422008-03-22T21:59:00.002-04:002008-03-23T23:36:34.571-04:00

Dreaming I saw a man walking along on an even, pale yellow shoreline that glistened like melting butter in the sun. Abruptly he changed his direction, and stepped out into the lapping water until his feet and ankles were beneath the surf, and he stretched out his hands towards the tide, which was coming in. Immediately the water around him bubbled and rose, until it swirled now above and now

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-85057902606857735552008-03-18T13:59:00.005-04:002008-03-22T20:50:15.472-04:00

Well folks, Necromancy, the sequel to Alchemy, is officially underway - and here is the first installment. Tell me what you think! (News updates & apologies for the months of silence coming soon).* * * * * * *Prologue A low wind whispered across the disturbed surface of the Last Sea, drawing the heavy fog swirling into its wake like the ripples left behind by a water-snake. The night was

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-76091203023377494352007-12-04T01:59:00.000-05:002007-12-04T02:00:52.887-05:00

A little girl grewUp on a sheep farmBy the side of the sea,Sprawling along the cliff.Ever since she learnedTo write she wroteOn rocks for parchment practiceLetters which formed wordsShe was there like milkweedPatiently feeding the caterpillarsFlinging her frustrationsBeyond the cliff: a littleAvalanche of charcoaled pebbles.Later when she grew,She chiseled her feelings.In a hollow over the

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-88749130426434097612007-11-26T10:31:00.004-05:002011-10-31T22:03:20.790-04:00

36 months since we started12 months since we stopped 21 since I first realized we might not last as long as we'd thought... And I've wondered: what do you tell people? Especially the people we both knew? I've told them I don't understand, I've told them my guesses - I've told them you left, and that you took a long and reluctant time to do it. I've said, I don't know - -maybe you caved to

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-20415217577130417302007-11-06T15:28:00.001-05:002011-10-31T22:00:31.336-04:00

The winds bore aloft his soul And they carried it to God And I prayed He had given mercy As freely as He had given death

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-69343513278569542992007-11-06T13:11:00.000-05:002007-11-06T13:17:28.482-05:00

This one comes to the Smithy from my friend, fellow miscreant, and sometime roommate Aaron Roth. I deemed it worthy.* * *I had an interesting lunch today. Let me tell you about it.I wanted to get the oil changed in my car so I went over to the Honda place near my office. I dropped the car off and walked to McD's which was just 100 feet up the hill a bit. I sat down ate my

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-18515395717612796002007-10-12T19:11:00.000-04:002007-10-14T01:32:59.523-04:00

1/16th is just enough to claim legalityAnd just enough to earn the scorn of truer ancestry.We Americans buy our heritage from the Celtic corner Shoppe,Where they blend the Viking with the Irish and the Scot.On stony grey asphalt of Monaghan Drive, no burglary took placeThere I learned to read and write, to bike, to tag, to chase.And I live now on Ulster Lane, its name, perhaps, a crime;Chosen, I’

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-86756289178543772972007-10-10T11:44:00.000-04:002007-12-04T01:52:09.422-05:00

Project the image. Use a low-output setting so they won't notice if the battery gets weak. Don't think about what will happen if the bulb burns out, until it does.You can hide in the herd. Hide because predators pick off the weak, the sick, the elderly, the young. Easy targets. There's cover in numbers. Numbers are the predators, though; the hunters are the herd. The pack eats its own. Keep your

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-38600413462513097932007-09-18T15:51:00.001-04:002009-07-10T11:42:59.518-04:00

Once upon a time we carved our words in stoneAnd broke the backs of slaves to erectA few, monumental phrases.For awhile we slaughtered sheepStole their skins and inkedOur thoughts on their hides.Then we groundThousands of splinters to pulpFor mass fiction and the presses.Now we power imaginary pagesBy, so they say, burning remainsOf the prehistoric.One day, I thinkThe worth of all of these

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-76292931301563458732007-08-26T16:12:00.000-04:002007-09-02T16:19:24.508-04:00

Another work in progress, you might say... I started this a couple years ago and lost the piece of paper I had written it on (!) until recently. It will, one day, be a full-fledged epic poem written in Spenserian verse, and I'm putting up the first stanza so you can get a feel for what I'm working with. I have the content for the second stanza, a few random lines, and a general story in my head,

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-26085932704670803782007-08-26T14:45:00.001-04:002008-02-23T01:55:02.582-05:00

I've been working on an idea of nobility for contemporary American society - attempting to adapt the ideals of nobility to a culture that believes everyone is equal. How does one behave in a way that is above the common inclination of humankind, without at the same time looking down upon humankind for acting on its inclinations?I think I have at least a partial answer, in the form of a list of

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-59583891843490655902007-07-29T21:26:00.003-04:002011-10-31T22:05:33.075-04:00

Composed by David Sewall and myself during a day of mulching a friend's garden, Encounters won 9th place in the 2002 Writers' Digest Short Story Competition out of some 19,000 entries. As we began work that morning, I mentioned to David that I'd like to write a fairy tale "with a haunting ending." This is the result. I fear them. Though I believe I was allowed to hear this tale for their

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-89635931211033314962007-07-29T21:26:00.001-04:002007-09-17T23:53:22.029-04:00

I’ve often thought how ‘modernity’Sounds like ‘maternity’ but,For some reason, I hear it more in‘Postmodernity’As in ‘post-maternity,’ if there is such a word,And I wonder whatWe and those before usHave given birth to.I see no rough beast moving its slow thighsTo or from Bethlehem;Perhaps because I am skeptical about whetherYeats’ preceding era of Love really was,Or perhaps I do not believe in

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-62785697723126818482007-07-20T00:58:00.000-04:002007-07-29T21:37:27.194-04:00

The other day I came across a Facebook discussion group titled: Not “believing” in evolution is like not “believing” in gravity. I had to laugh. This essay is dedicated to everyone who agrees with their title; its purpose is to explain why doubting the theory of evolution is perfectly rational – indeed, why any reasonable person ought to treat that theory with skepticism.The “theory of evolution”

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-44375296114937000372007-06-23T01:04:00.000-04:002007-06-23T01:15:25.988-04:00

One day in the near future, I will walk into a bookstore and pick up a book from the display rack. I will examine the author’s name with a smile, open the book, and trace my fingers across the pages—recognizing each line, recalling the many revisions the text received, reliving the thoughts and emotions I felt when I first put the words on paper. I’ll look inside the front cover and check the

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-85373687158444627822007-06-14T10:20:00.000-04:002007-06-14T10:40:30.018-04:00

...I smooth my hands upon the witgnarled roots of this great bulbous treeSunshiny brilliant golden above the living canopyUnder from which rain gentles silver cool, tinklesplashing laughterInto the many little pools deep with their blue wisdom and their ripple-ripped self-reflectionThat lie scattered between the witgnarled roots of this great bulbous treeMotionlessResonantKept in my own

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-74009993730022021902007-06-05T15:18:00.000-04:002007-06-05T15:37:07.963-04:00

Michael of Lyhn turned back to the two men still seated in front of his desk, and leaned against the door. “Does Indar know?” “I find it hard to believe that everybody in the entire line of towers perished,” Dwelf replied, standing. “Someone must have made it to the capital.” “But no action has been taken that we know of.” “It’s only been two days, and the

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-50370025424666882262007-05-10T04:53:00.002-04:002010-09-23T12:51:58.520-04:00

The first, and most important, truth about beauty is that it is entirely and completely subjective. There is no such thing as objective beauty – that is to say, nothing that is intrinsically beautiful. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder; in other words, it is a value judgment placed on a sensory experience. The closest a thing might come to being “objectively” beautiful is if the thing were

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-15691041979218144732007-05-10T04:53:00.001-04:002007-05-10T05:27:44.723-04:00

Who is it that stands behind youLike a ghost-childLooking over your shoulder?I myself stand behind meLooking over my own shoulderSo that no one else can

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-12214723558408966822007-04-08T11:57:00.000-04:002007-05-10T02:42:02.869-04:00

I … exist.I can begin with no other premise.The riddle of existence – its nature, its substance – is a question for philosophers. Those who lose themselves in the philosophers’ game are fools; the contestants squabble over emptiness and disciple their onlookers with clever words meant to impress the unlearned.Any reasonable person will confess his own existence as fact. Each person’s own

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-19678394754005081982007-04-08T11:03:00.000-04:002007-06-18T15:14:49.448-04:00

There are those who still look down on the fantasy genre as escapist literature. They are not wrong; they are missing the point.Readers, fans, lovers of fantasy do not return to the same shelves at the library and video rental store because they want a temporary respite from the environments of their own lives, although fantasy does offer such respites.We do not pre-order our favorite authors’

J. Aleksandr Woottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14662632470889043158noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2016071871186519042.post-11916331048113859782007-04-08T10:50:00.000-04:002007-04-08T10:52:53.479-04:00

The painter calls up his colors, thenSets out his brushesDraws a child in a goose-cartWoven from the rushes.The gander-pair is strong,They stretch their necks and pullThe little girl squealsAs the cart begins to rollStraight into the fountainMidst the public squareHer frock would soon be soaked,Soaked the gold-curled hairLuncheoners and amblersNannies with their chargesName the child

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