In Uncategorized on February 28, 2011 at 9:54 pm
There is no more pain nor distress, except in our shell shocked hearts. There is only silence and the finality of the last moment. What becomes of the years walking the hallways and avenues of living? Is it just as meaningful anyway? And for whom?
You said that you have chosen your tomorrow well. You wanted us to be happy and to cheer you on.
And so, you put on your best face. We did not think it was all a charade.
There is this space in our days where you used to be. How do we fill it now?
In by Chris on February 25, 2011 at 11:35 pm
Written in the blank verse of Paradise Lost, Jayden Wilson’s new work gathers the forces of modern culture into a new epic, a new archetype, perhaps even a whole new mythology. Tragically, because of its densely (perfectly) chosen words, it will sink into that very same morass of a culture and disappear with nary a gurgle. Its inspiration recalls the classic epics; its dealing in globalization, families, landscapes, warfare, comfort, and travel place it squarely within the world of today. But alas, alas! No one will read it. The very culture it depicts has no attention for stories like this.
In by Fannie on February 25, 2011 at 12:27 am
So many words running around me all day every day. In the form of thought or verse, reading or writing…it’s just one long continuous and continuously varying stream of words. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t possibly take any more in – I’m saturated, overflowing, practically bursting with words – and yet there’s ever more to read, digest, mull over, thesaurize and expound upon. Is it one of nature’s cruelties to make the cure for too much word-ness be to write out words? Maybe I have the wrong strategy. Maybe I should take up meditation. Others’ words have told me
In by Fannie on February 23, 2011 at 11:39 pm
I always like working in libraries when I do, but even though after a particularly good library session, I think to myself that this will be the turning point, this will be the day when I start to work in the library all the time, well, it never pans out. Libraries eliminate so many distractions, certainly not all, but a large number of small ones, which usually build up into uber-distracting noise. I don’t munch or cook or get caught up cleaning or organizing. Sure the computer’s alluring nooks and crannies is there, but that’s about it. Biggest nuisance: peeing.
In by Fannie on February 22, 2011 at 11:12 pm
Sometimes I write to God. Though, I’m still not sure if I believe in him. He’s no cloud-dwelling dude with a long beard. Instead I like the idea of him as someone who is greater (in the sense that he is a soul that hasn’t been compromised by being in a human body) and therefore someone who I can speak to and easily connect with. I always feel better when I think out loud, and who better than someone who is there but not there there. I wonder though, is God sarcastic? Sometimes I get the sassiest responses from him!
In by Chris on February 22, 2011 at 11:32 am
I believe he was a sage. In my life, anyway. A kindergarten school bus driver he had round jowls, thick glasses, and was smoking behind the school.
“Lousy,” I said to him, reaching for his lighter. “I feel like Sysiphus, going to work every day, dissatisfied for no real reason, you know. Wife’s busy too; we hardly make love.”
“What? Me?” The pyramids unaccountably popped into my mind.
“A fellow can always be moving towards who he wants to be, even if he’s not there.”
“Like builders? Maybe I’m constructing my way. I guess it does take patience.”
In by Lara on February 21, 2011 at 5:56 pm
Two days ago, I got a goldfish. He was magnificent — a metallic orange-gold body with a hint of silver and crystal clear fins and flippers. He was also a bit of a chubster. I name him, “Hubert.” Hubert has been swimming around in his little bowl happily. He seems to have developed a fundness for the fake plant since he swims around its leaves like a cat sidling up against your leg. And when he eats, he swims up to the top as fast as he can, gulps down a flake or two and lets out a big satisfied air bubble burp.
In by Fannie on February 21, 2011 at 5:32 pm
In an old barn with cowboy boots, flannel and too much denim to count…it doesn’t matter your age, where you’re from or what you look like. You swing with the elbows of strangers and jostle against neighbors as you doe-si-doe. Grins emerge and shouts of joy abound. The temperature inside rises. I’m holding the leather-gloved hands of a motorcycle punk as we promenade around the room; I’m “barreling” with a group of young hipsters who sneak outside the barn to have a smoke; I’m waltzing with the caller because why not ask an overall-clad character to dance? This is home.