Firstly, I'd like to explain the title. I cannot recall when, but some time ago I was thinking about alliteration and the word 'pulp' when the phrase 'palpable pulp' circumstantially popped into my mind.
It has curiously settled itself there every since.
At the time, I didn't know the dictionary definition of 'palpable,' so the phrase made perfect sense to me -- not so much now, though. Unfortunately, upon finding out what palpable meant,
(Pal·pa·ble
[pal-puh-buhl]
–adjective
1. readily or plainly seen, heard, perceived, etc.; obvious; evident: a palpable lie; palpable absurdity.
2. capable of being touched or felt; tangible.
3. Medicine/Medical . perceptible by palpation.)
the phrase didn't seem to click quite as soundly. I still like to think it makes sense in a curious, imaginative way, though. It's a phrase I've wanted to use
dearly, but never chanced to in any recent occurrences.
It seemed fit to use it on my blog though, as this is my 'digital sanctuary,' open to my many imaginings and ideas... which is lovely, isn't it? :)
Part of a little something I wrote the other day. Didn't turn out very well, but these two paragraphs did (I edited them a bit to fit in the context for a reader who is oblivious to the story's contents):
As incertitude initiates invention, myths regarding the unknown will inevitability begin to sprout over time.
The younger population whose minds are enlightened to imaginative possibilities believe in magical prospects, while the majority of the adult population that have long lost their fictive mindset sensibly conjecture dull and commonplace liabilities.
All mysteries remain encouragingly manifested by the many myths they motivate. Although many yearn to know the truth, whatever it may have been is soon abdicated – for the skeptics and suspicion aroused by the curiosity of the matter do naught but spawn superstition, which later substitute as a publicly persuasive, but fabricated verisimilitude.
Finally, here's the most beautiful piece of poetry I've read all day:
An extract from The Ruined Cottage
by William Wordsworth
I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er,
As once I passed did to my mind convey
So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
That passing shews of being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream that could not live
Where meditation was. I turned away,
And walked along my road in happiness."
He ceased. By this the sun declining shot
A slant and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us where beneath the trees,
We sate on that low bench. And now we felt,
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on:
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard peopled the milder air.
The old man rose and hoisted up his load;
Together casting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade;
And, ere the stars were visible attained
A rustic inn, our evening resting-place.
I've taken a even huger liking to Wordsworth -- his description of nature and the way he writes about how it pacifies and heals the heart is beautiful. I love to read his poetry.
That's all! Goodnight, my lovelies. Going to go stalk Pottermore (for my friend (;).
