Bio (of sorts)

C.S. Mack Author

Bio (of sorts)

While in discussion with another writer he asked, “Why no bio?”

         “Because the work, the words, the stories should stand alone.” I replied. He laughed.

         “Those times are long past.” He shook his head.

         “I’m not selling me.” I was a little annoyed, but he just smiled and laughed again.

Here is my Bio (of sorts).

I am a writer and an adventurer living each and every day in the phantasmal moment while looking towards my undeniable future, flourishing in the expansive house of personal satisfaction and joy. It is a mirthfulness derived from a lifetime of exponential tests and agonizing trials, a happiness wrought from looking into the mirror of juxtapositions that enlightens ulterior selections of existence that might have been foisted upon this soul, but instead, there has been a conscious choosing of a contented dwelling over the probable horrors, a sidestepping if you will, of the unavoidable consequences that life offers to trail blazers, risk takers, and all around nonconformists.

I have been observed in many honorable roles: mentor; teacher; seeker, and finder of dreams come true. I know this because I am aware of those who I have launched, they soar to the heights of their dreams and beyond. I’ve watch them land upon the peaks of their destinies with humbled hubris standing aside in the dimmed outer casting of brilliant light shining from their success. I feel that I am one of the lucky ones.

I have been told that I am attractive even beautiful, but this has little meaning in my measure of self-worth and accomplishment, yet another of the many human judgments that is held by each and to their own. My measure of beauty reaches far beyond an epidermal thin film overlay that too many hold as the epitome of beauty in mankind. The beauty I seek exudes an essence that is produced from a driven soul, a healthy fire within, solid structures of empathy, open thought derived through one’s membership within humanity, and a pure respect for mother nature in her nourishing glory. That is the beauty I hope for when others look into my soul in finding me.

I am a reader of the ancient and venerable classics, but I have crossed the boundaries of time to engage newfangled genres that are usually an insignificant rehashing of what has already been told well, but at times worthy of ingestion, some respectful innovative recalls and retellings of antiquated motifs. The manuscripts that have been consumed by me were sought in order to fulfill my personal desires mostly, but at times, they have been pursued at the demands of others, such is the role of the human bibliophile wading through the written word of the human race while taking into account the responsibilities of a lifetime.

I am a content being who maintains a scorching desire to know truth that is present and relevant in all walks of life, and in all places real or otherworldly. I have traversed fire filled chasms to arrive at destinations that others have marked as unreachable and impenetrable, an excited soul eager to find what lies beyond in the illuminating light, or buried in the dark abyss.

My delights are found in the fruitful garden of words, abstractions grown from seeds planted with loving thoughts and gentle encouragement, hieratic offspring of the nib propped in my apt and sharply focused hand.

I exist in that multifaceted and infinite land of lush word growth where there is never ending cultivation of expressions in my fertile mind. Here, the cycle of rebirth transforms budding notions into infinite and grand ideas, new life propagated through sacred rituals of prose. Words securely rooted in exposition bloom through rising action, and finally mature in climax, only to return to Saṃsāra after passing through the gates of the dénouement. The prayer for reincarnation is one of transcendence, each a regenerative breath of new life given in the hope that there will occur an ascendance out of the primordial existence of a mere scribbler into new levels of eloquence and skill upon the next cyclical page, an author reborn.

My interior is imbued with a bountiful stratum that produces enigmatic fantasies, lust filled rendezvous, and willful creatures of enormous proportions and fabulous illusion. At times, a sinister vernacular rises from my fecund mind, thoughts invaded by serpentine weeds lurking in the deep subsoil ascending from dark recesses within. These productions are bombastic shades of thought that formulate into taboo and forbidden tales of dark pleasure after uninvited congress with Inanna in the fires of my internal Hades.

I exist in both stagnant frozen moments, and in the unbalanced fringe. Static words solidly planted upon pages under my guiding hand live forever, placed as I have commanded them into the void of time where the writer never grows old. I also dwell in the variable fringe where shifting thoughts and whims drive words furiously onto the page cast out from my hands that appear possessed by unknown entities under my astonished gaze.

I have for many years arduously labored in the rituals of writers, a sort of asceticism, an honorable prerequisite to honing my craft, thus enabling me to offer the highest respect to each word that I pen, for these musings and messages will live forever in the verses I’ve left behind after my perishing. My insignificant stardust will rise up in a universal whirlwind only to flow out into oblivion, but the words will live on.

I have played all of the roles that authentic writers must play to wrench truth from their souls and cast respectable worth onto the revered pillars of authorship. My offerings have been, and will continue to be, respectfully laid upon the alter before the venerable obelisk of literature that marks literary time. Etched upon the pillar is a codification denoting the very first works spoken, and then carved in to antiquity, a descending list from the first tablets in cuneiform to the splendid scripts of present times. My offerings are ineffectual trinkets in the emanating brilliance of the greatness, demurely inscribed next to the many mentors who authored before me. This hard earned understanding and edification is known by few, but sought by many.

I am a storyteller, a wordsmith, a writer, a researcher, an author, a poet, a scripter, an analyst, an observer, a comforter, a motivator, a cultivator, and steadfast friend of the finely collated words of man.

I am one who offers admiration and praise to those authors who have skillfully worked their craft; living and breathing the words that make their stories come to fruition. More importantly, I am an enthusiastic fan of the philanthropic readers that openly allow authors to live in their minds and lives by consuming writers’ words and stories, an indelible gift of time and faithful compassion as they take in the efforts, that soulful pouring out of writers, into their hearts and souls. Finally, there exists no more respectable seat, or wonderfully untainted experience than that of the reader who perpetually keeps literature alive.