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historyOnce, sitting cross-legged in front of you while you played guitar, I saw a future in some quiet wild place. I saw you long-haired, carrying wood, stacking it by a cabin where we sleep in the dark, where you sit and play the guitar by firelight. I saw this future life where we need never speak, a forested universe where our language would be linked fingers, song lyrics, foreheads touching, hands callused with work. I would put things in the ground and there would be dirt under my fingernails until I washed them clean in cold soapless water, maybe in a porcelain basin that I emptied in the evenings, maybe in a slow-moving stream, close to a bahistory
by ~are-bee-s
Little sisterThis morning the sunrise is muted by rain clouds. In the extended night, I walk through the wet grass that needs to be mowed, through the gate soft with rot that swings silently on its hinges. The dog pads behind me, panting despite the still-cool, the flavor of night in the temperature, in the balance between humidity and darkness that keeps mosquitoes where they sleep.Little sister
The horses' clocks, buried in the vicinity of a hungry stomach, overwhelm the illusion of the sky. They are silhouettes, black bodies shouldering one another aside to be first at the gate. I take their leather halters from the post. I shoo them backward as I unla
by ~are-bee-s
News from KansasElla has been left in Kansas. She has been left on the windy farm, a place to be alone, she has been left alone with her grandparents, and they are stern and speak with Scottish accents, she has been left here with them on this hot farm, this windy farm, this hot and windy and accented place, by her mother. Ella has been left in Kansas by her mother.News from Kansas
Her mother has been writing letters. They come in bright envelopes, envelopes that seem alien to the colorless Kansas landscape, the dry grass and the splitting soil, the white house, the white gravel, the black mailbox Ella reaches inside to find, every day, a bright envelope. The l
by ~are-bee-s
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Kansas, US
- Interests: writing, reading, horses
- Favourite movie: In Bruges
- Favourite genre of music: miscellaneous
- Favourite poet or writer: Anne Patchett or Lorrie Moore
- Favourite game: tetris
- Personal Quote: Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one. - Albert Einstein
- Tools of the Trade: bic pens - ballpoint, black ink; college ruled paper; absolute silence
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Crowded streets are cleared away, one by one
Hollow heroes separate as they run
You're so cold, keep your hand in mine
Wise men wonder while strong men die
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"'Your mom' jokes are so overrated...kinda like your mom."
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I know how the devil sleeps at night
He lights the fire behind my eyes
And he lets it there and I let it lie
I know how the devil sleeps at night
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icon by *0xo
Good writing is extremely difficult to discover now-a-days and I find "Measured in Years" to be the most compelling work I've read on DA.
I'll definitely be back to read more.
Will be back to read more of your work.
Delightful
Joy
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Life is worth living, worth loving, and worth taking risks!
In Bruges: Twisting, heartwrenching, well-plotted, insidious, replete with the irredeemable repentance of living love & loss, resurrected themes & symbols, so lasting, the film stays, it refuses to escape me in image and allegory . . . perhaps the best film I saw in 2008, a shame 'twas so blatantly misadvertised. And misunderstood (by most). If you get the chance, get your hands on a copy of the screenplay by Martin McDonagh -- he's an excellent playwright. I think you dowload it in PDF format here: [link]
Reality would seem more interesting not as an illusion/delusion individualistic (as that drunk pervert Poe would have, a dream within a dream); a fantasy populated by our consciousness by all this flotsam and jetsam and whatnot, rather as an as a shared delusion. Mass hysteria fascinates. Mobs and other obvious natch, more though: look up stuff about groups of people who have been unable to stop laughing together and died from it.
I'll try to comment on your writing. I'm not a fan of posting mine or critiquing others via this medium. I'll ask you first some questions on how you prefer me to critique or not: certain ways can be -- especially in this medium -- jarring and/or misconstrued. Once, apparently, here on DA, I destroyed the confidence of a very good writer and she didn't reply with anything but praise about my comments. One day, wondering the reason she had not posted anything but inane new ID pics, hoping she had found the deserved luck of publication, I received a scratching and scathing long e-note from a (quite boring, and pretentious NOOOOO, plus boring the worst sin in writing, and incessantly complaining about -- yet always obeying -- her "poetry tutor"] person who reamed me out on behalf of her "friend" from whom she had learned, via the chatrooms here I think, wherever, that my comments had planted an insidious seed of doubt in here which either coincided with or started a dry spell. The defender of this poor victim (who I wrote to no avail, leading me to conclude I had done damage, thus putting me off most all commentary) went on to tell me I quite the overwhelming prick. Ah well. Mea culpa for the long story. Just to demonstrate how much easier it is for miscommunication of various sorts can happen involving commentary and criticism -- I feel especially with writing. There are simpler reference points with photography, for instance, and as it is visual, I'm translating into words rather than with prose/poem/etc., directly subjecting and subverting the craft/art to my peculiar personal verbal language.
remember the Krebs cycle--wayne.
You are a fantastic writer.
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we still believe in love so fuck you.
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踊れ!～ ^^ . . . visit my gallery? >> [link]
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