The Host
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About this ebook
A long experiment that felt much longer. Quite a few years ago, when I was working mostly nights, I arranged to have a few nights off, so I could experiment with an idea I had. That idea was the Host. It did not quite work out as I imagined though. I was intending to get drunk for three days, and write about the aftermath. What actually happened was that I didn't get drunk, but I did decided to stay up for one night and just write about sleep deprivation and its effect on the mind. This became the Host. What you are reading is edited only so far as doing a spell check. I have not corrected any grammar mistakes, wrong words, or intentional misspellings. I wanted to gain a real insight into what it would be like to force myself to keep writing for the whole night. I began with the task of writing 20,000 words. These are those 20,000 words, in all their ugly glory.
David Francis Jeffery
David Francis Jeffery is a writer living in Australia with his wife and daughter. He has a had a few things published here and there and has self-published two chapbooks and a literary magazine in the early '00's. He writes everyday but not everyday does he write something worthwhile.
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The Host - David Francis Jeffery
THE HOST
Copyright David Francis Jeffery 2014
Smashwords Edition
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My soul cannot be condemned to anywhere but where it is at the present time for, you see, I am the host. For what is the soul but the very essence of our being but no, do I really wish to play host to all this? This somewhat obvious discussion, which can turn away even the most enlightened mind? Yes, I rather think I do.
So, what then, do I believe? I think that this is going to be a terribly misleading question, for I am going to give a terribly misleading answer - I believe in experiments. But don’t let that word conjure up the inevitable picture; the tools, the sterile environment, the emotionless academic laying waste to the feelings of some defenceless creature; or perhaps the even more boring vision of school Bunsen burners boiling coloured water down to its base material. No, I prefer to think of myself as wishing to experiment with the outcomes of standards. And even that is going to prove confusing for my language is not half as impressive as I imagine. Let me just begin my discussion by saying that this is an experiment in itself.
This is going to take me into realm s that I’ve only explored cursorily, which means that I have no idea where I will take myself (and of course, you). I don’t imagine that it will always be a pretty picture and I suppose that it many even tax the patience of some of you but, if you are willing to come along on this journey, I may be able to give you something to think about - or at least fill up a couple of hours of your life.
I was born thirty-five years ago, and now I’m here typing this. That is all I will give you because, as I’m sure you would agree, thirty-five years in not nearly enough time to think you have anything in your life interesting enough to write about. Which is only half-true but I don’t want to go too far just yet. Let’s leave it at that and try continuing without so many interruptions.
An experiment is defined (by at least one dictionary I have) as thus: Procedure tried on the chance of success, or to test hypothesis. At the time of this writing, I have no idea whether there is a true chance of success but, I think I am at least heading in the right direction, for my hypothesis is this: keep writing. And what, if any, has this to do with the soul question? Well, to put it simply, I believe my soul lies in the act of writing, but I need to find its true voice. The only way I conclude I can do this is to - keep writing.
The soul in itself, is an act of God; would I be right in saying that? The soul individuates our personalities, it makes us ‘who we are.’ So, is it such a crazy hypothesis to imagine that my soul becomes me in the act of writing? To imagine that the act of writing brings conclusive proof of God? For what is my body if it is not merely a host, a host for the presence of my soul? My soul cannot write without the help of my fingers, my fingers cannot write without the urging of my soul; God cannot exist without the presence of my soul and fingers upon the keyboard, or holding the pen. Indeed, with every work I type, with every work I write, with every thought inside my brain trying to make it onto the page, God grows stronger and more alive. He becomes more real. I have not merely belief in experiments. I have FAITH.
From the same dictionary: Host 1 - Large number (of; person is a ~ in himself, equal to a ~ of ordinary persons); (arch.) army (Lord God of ~s); ~ or ~s of heaven, heavenly bodies, also angels.
Host 2 - One who lodges or entertains another; landlord of inn (reckon without one’s ~, overlook opposition &c); animal having parasite.
Host 3 - Bread consecrated in Eucharist.
So?
Is the soul a parasite?
Yes, why DID I only pick that meaning? Well, we can eliminate the large number because the soul couldn’t possibly be a large number - though that does raise the very interesting question of multiple personalities - are they the victim of invasion by other souls? Do they only have partly-formed souls, albeit many at the one time? Or alternatively, is their soul somehow split, making several attempts at completion but unaware of which completion is the right one for their host? That is something I may explore later but, for now, I am going to assume that the large number can be dismissed, at least for me.
One who lodges - could that not be the vessel of a host? Is a soul not lodged in one’s body? Can a body be considered an inn for the soul? I think it can, which leads us directly to the next proposition, is the soul a parasite? (I believe we can skip the Bread of the Eucharist but I may explore that as well). I can’t see how the soul can be anything else.
Would you like another dictionary definition, this time I’m only going to refer to the one most appropriate: