The Hagengard is a place where discourse can range over many different worlds. What this means, for the literalist, the reader who craves distinctions, categories and no ambiguities, is a bloody nightmare.
So "inside the world" is something a bit misleading and still dates back to when this page started. You see, my first book, a fictionalized memoir entitled The Nightingale's Stone was set within a specific fictional universe. But, it wasn't one I was particularly fond of explaining away in lengthy expositionary passages. To sum it up neatly in another discourse-community's code system I don't really care if Balrogs have wings or not.
Rather, I told my illustrator and editor, David Mecklenburg that perhaps the best way to take care of boring stuff was to sift through the editorial cullings and see if it could find a home here. After all, what an editor may say is "slowing down the story" could be read with interest on a lunch break, or say when you have to pay attention to something other than the creepy guy on the bus who has peed himself. There I would be, on your phone. Sorry I couldn't do anything about the smell or the sound of that 40 ounce bottle of malt-liquor clinking around on the floor.
At any rate, I found that I didn't want to limit myself to stories set within an alternative 17th Century Germany. That time-frame was, in many ways, a construct which served a number of very good purposes in getting that book out.
I am fond of telling others that The Nightingale's Stone remains the center of my work because it contained a number of existentialist and philosophical quandaries facing me as a woman, a writer and a human being. One of the aspects I discovered was not that the self "doesn't exist" but it is a parliament of thoughts, memories and desires.
Just as the word "Self" is used to convey this concept of a mutable collective, World could be an externalized metaphor of that word and concept. As such, I am afraid you will find multiple worlds here, many of which end in a sort of gray haze, which others are restricted to small, alternating planets of light and unlight. Deceit and Truth (the time it takes a revolution to complete).
Posts and texts will no doubt carry the flavors of my past interests. I certainly have better memories of books and specific reading epochs than the (few) men and women I've been deeply involved with.
You may see a bit of Anne Carson here. Some H.D. there. A tableau of Tada Chimako and Rainer Maria Rilke discussing poetry together, along with that boisterous group of people yelling at each other in the dusty chalk-chambers, Ludwig, Iris, Friedrich, Michel, Arthur, Martin—you all know who you are.
But mostly, I like to sit next to one particular poet. I try to gaze out upon his vistas. That is the aesthetic and philosophy I find that best suits me for now.
The clear sapphire of Autumn's sky opens
The deep shadows come earlier
And waters empties into the horizon
The City disappears in fog.
Scant leaves, scattered in the wind
As the sun sets behind the mountains.
A lone heron returns. Why is she so late?
The crows already paint the gouts of night.
(My best attempt at Du Fu)