Dinh AaronMk — Roleplayer Guild

<Snipped quote by Dinh AaronMk>

This is definitely one of the biggest keys. If you are going to get serious about writing, try to become a large scale consumer of knowledge. Everything you do not know is a weakness, and everything you learn is a self-improvement. When you read, try to read like you are an English teacher, finding what you like and what you don't like about everything from the way the subject matter is presented to the way the words are arranged. If somebody seems like they would like to gush about some topic they know, ask questions and seriously think about what they say. Doesn't matter if it is astrophysics or the finer point of bagging groceries. 

And don't avoid learning about shit you already know. Different perspectives are what give you a three dimensional idea of how the subject works.@Vilageidiotx

This reminds me of a post that showed up on my Facebook of all places. I'll share it here for shits it giggles (seeing as how I had to scan through the mountain of unrefined bullshit that is everything else).

50 years ago, I started a long period of absolutely voracious reading that lasted about 12 or 15 years, from preteen to young man. I was unfettered by social media and all the information it would have given me about what to read or not read. I was in a Catholic school system that did not particularly value reading as a past time, so I was free of its constraints, in large measure. I was lucky to be in a high school that had teachers who despised each others politics, ethics and sexual norms, thereby presenting me with a wealth of conflicting values, ideas and sources.
Hence, I read without a value meter, without a guide. I read Ursula K. Le Guin and George Lincoln Rockwell, Ferlinghetti and Poe, JFK’s profiles, Plato’s republic and Barry Goldwater’s conscience, all given juvenile equal weight. I read about catchers in rye and women on wuthering heights. I absorbed the bizarre lessons of individuality of Howard Roark and Alan Watts. I read the Douay-Rheims Bible end to end without trying to make sense of it one summer when I was way too young to separate the poetic from the puerile-erotic, or the fact from fiction. I read about the joy of sex before I’d had any, and the history of Vietnam before I was threatened with a visit. I read Asimov and Huxley, the former as inevitable reality, the latter as fiction. I could not read enough Ginsberg, even though I failed to understand until many years later. I read pornography as poetry, and poetry as an instruction manual.
I read everything I could, without labels, warnings, peer guidance or teacher demands. I was handed a book by someone I trusted and I read it. I was handed a book by someone I suspected, and I read it. It was a huge jumble of conflicting ideas, some that I held quite comfortably, side by side no matter how incongruous they were.
I do not know if this kind of pre-intellectual, non-judgmental discovery is still encouraged or allowed. I was fortunate that either no one gave a shit and noticed what I was up to, or perhaps they noticed and just let me be. I was lucky to live in a bubble for a precious decade or so.

Lhasa, Tibet

Norbulingka Palace

Night had fallen with a cool breath across the city. The sounds of hooves clopped against rugged stones and shifting pavement as the city's prince rode to the gates of the old winter palace. The furor of the hooves echoed from weathered plaster walls as they rode down narrow paths and through the narrow gates of the Norbulingka palace. The group, comprising of the prince and a retinue of guards slowed their galloping to that of a trot as they sauntered down the cobbled pathways of the palace's gardened interior. Towering spruces hung over them, shading them from the star studded night sky. Lanterns glowing with ruby light lit the rocky pathway, casting soft shadows and halos of light across stones pocked with moss and mold. Along the edge manicured bushes of flower gardens lay in rest for tomorrow's sun.

Lit by its own rosy golden light the ancient Kelsang Phodang stood at the end of a long pathway. Largely hidden by trees and the garden, the structure's only footprint was the lantern light that covered it. Inside, the private reading rooms and shrine of the 7th Dalai Lama. Opposite were another set of temples, constructed by his successor.

Cutting across open pastures and around the shores of lakes the retinue made way to the far south side, entering passed the yellow walls of the estate's interior, the crumbling paint and mud that had coated the surface peeling back from the brick and field stone underneath. At the rippling banks of the pond the men stopped to dismount their horses, they had arrived at the stables. Attended to swiftly by the stable staff, Samten's horse was lead away as he dismounted. Servents made timely measured moves to offer the prince his homely effects; comfortable silk robes from the east to replace his heavy woolen coat, comfortable leather slippers to replace his boots.

With a lantern in hand, he was lead from the stables. Their muffled anxiety dying as he strolled along the lakeshore to the villa at the center of it all. Lit by candles and oil lamps from inside, the building seemed to hang in the moonlight from the surrounding warm glow of fire-light, running down the low slopped roof like water in the rain. He opened the heavy red doors, and stepped inside the mighty central villa. He was handed warm tea as he entered.

The inside of the center palace was much like that of the Potala Palace. But where age and the relentless gauging of time had slowly faded the monastic temple there was a articulate attention to the livability of the norbulingka. Among the western antiques that had been collected during the final days of the last Dalai Lama, the walls shone with bright warming colors. A covering of stucco and plaster glowed with a brilliant citrus-orange glow accompanied by rose-petal red trim that cut up the wall to waist high. And strapping along that shot green lines straight as a bullet's path.

Heavy doors hung closed, but not all the less unwelcoming as Samten walked down the hall, gently sipping the bitter tea in his cold hands. The warmth of the drink rejuvenated his spirit and filled him with determination. Like waves inverted, a band of wooden trim followed his course down the wall, the paint only just peeling from the petrified wood under it. There was a dryness to the spirit of the house, but not one of decay. It was one simply of pure wisdom. It had all the charming air of an old home.

Deeper into the estate, the maze of rooms and hallways became evident, phasing into each other in a controlled chaos. Frescos containing the entire history of Tibet brooded silently from the walls where they rested. Empty chairs and motes of dust littered empty floors and rug covered spaces. Wooden columns held up rafter ceilings and the cobwebs between floors.

Yet despite it, Samten knew his way around. Bowing to each depiction of the Buddha he crossed out of measured respect, and learned habit. Echoing through the walls though, sang the solitary chords of the dramyin. He followed it.

Stepping out onto a room of a hundred carpets, he found the source of the music. Seated on a empty wooden stage a young boy sat, the long skinny guitar-like dramyin seated on his lap. His fingers danced up and down the neck as they puttered across the strings, striking notes as the strings were struck. He kept his head bowed low as he fingered the strings and dancing the notes up and down.

He held a captive-audience, or at least a mildly captive one. Seated on the floor below him a handful sat looking up at him as servants loitered along the far wall. Samten himself hung back from the side, drinking his remaining tea as he beheld the young boy with warm eyes.

When the song came to an end, a light smattering of applause filled the air. The boy on the stage took it in stride, and stood to bow. His attention was soon drawn elsewhere as a woman in the front rose a gentle hand and waved at Samten. The audience looked up, and their eyes lit up.

“Papa!” sang a chorus of a handful of voices. Holding out his hands, Samten walked forward and caught his young progenies as they raced forward. Hitting him like the wind he recoiled back from the youngest pair of twins as they coiled their arms around his legs.

“Rabten, Thekchen.” he greeted with fatherly warmth. The two with their thin, oily black hair were coiled springs, quick and gregarious. Quick to smile, the two six year-olds looked up at him with great green eyes.

In truth, they did not look like the rest of his children, who they were quick to rejoin. His wife who hovered like a gentle bird around the kids looked up at him with a soft smile. Long dark hair ran down her dress. Her skin was pale as paper, and her eyes – like his – were brown. Rabten and Thekchen were the product of a concubine, who had passed away shortly after she had given birth to them. His wife, Pema has since taken custody of them; serving (if at time reluctantly) as wet nurse and teacher of the two uncontrollable children.

Standing to Pema's side was the eldest of Samten's sons, Ugyen. A lion of a young man, though not yet having matured at the age of fifteen. His studious eyes seemed to look at and into all things. But he was none weaker for it and was growing fast to stand over his own mother. He gave his father a polite bow before turning back to his musical sibling Sonam as they ushered away their sisters.

As the kids peeled away for better things, Pema approached her husband. A troubled, serious look darkened her face as she came near. “You've been busy?” she asked tensely.

Samten looked aside to the kids, “Well ten in all but only two sons from other women, so I think so.” he joked, wrapping his arms around her. Pema's gentle warmth radiated through the new clothes, and there was a sweet smell of flowers.

“It's not that I'm talking about.” she moaned into his chest, “You're late.”

Samten sighed, “You were always a good time keeper.”

“Did you get him?” she asked, referring to the assassin.

“I got him.” he answered, “Gyaltsen is playing with him now.”

“Mhmm...” Pema hummed distantly, “So what now?”

“That's what I need to talk to you about.” Samten answered troubled. The couple parted and he looked up at the room. His brood had scattered through the palace, and half the servants had either chased after them or followed to keep their whims in check. “I have a name, I want to bring him to justice.”

“Who?”

“Chodak of Ngami.” answered Samten, his voice carried the unwavering weight of certainty, “I'm going to be gone for a couple months... As I lead the men, I need someone to do more than look after the house.”

“You need a regent?” Pema asked.

“That I do. I want you to look after things.”

Pema sighed, and lay her head in her hands. “Samten, you're acting a fool.” she pleaded. But she knew she was also defeated. She took a long sigh and worriedly checked back to the children, “But I suppose you're not offering any choices.”

“No, I'm not.” Samten confirmed, heavily.

“Then I will, if you don't get yourself killed.”

Dinh AaronMk Member

my beloved (french coded)

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