User Profile

Hi there. I'm Gray. Twenty-six, and still an undergrad. I'm a literature geek who isn't majoring in literature; an atheist who spends a preposterous amount of time philosophizing about religion; an asexual who reads slash into everything; a writer who has never finished and been happy with one single composition. I talk about Man with a capital M, and god in lower case. I'm both nihilistic and conservative, cynical and optimistic, and plenty of other contradictions besides. I think I'm predominantly composed of contradictions. Without them I should probably be very bored.

My little sister is a manager at Petsmart, and we have about a zillion pets, including snakes and chickens and a fish and a dog, and several cats. For a while we even had goats. Only one of the animals is actually mine, however: an evil yet adorable cycloptic cat demon known simpy as... well, the Demon.

In addition to our various animals, my sister and I own over 500 My Little Ponies (the old ones, not the new ones). We have a fairly extensive website dedicated thereto, which is located at www.PonylandPress.com. You should go and look at it. ;)

(Um, also, as of 6/7/09, I seem to have spontaneously created a Star Trek: TOS community. >_> It's here: classic_trek -- a community exclusively for the oldschool TOS timeline/universe/cast. I also have another community, amberfic, for fans of Roger Zelazny's Chronicles of Amber series, but it's... about as active as the rest of the Amber fandom. Which is to say, not at all.)

If you're curious what sorts of things I like to talk about, here's a completely gratuitous list of books and shows and movies and things that wouldn't fit in the "interests" section.

And since this bio still hasn't got half enough literature in it, or even half enough Satan, for that matter -- here's some Kipling.


The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew—
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?”
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree—and new as the new-cut tooth—
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould—
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

-Rudyard Kipling, 1890

Friends (77):

Friend of (88):