Month: December 2017
written to keep from sinking into the sea of not-writing
The ancient asian vase was a piece of junk
from the perspective of the puritan
who might’ve as well been born a bull
easily incensed and that by more than
the color of red as a center stage cape.
Therefore thousands of years were overturned
in the twinkle of a pair of narrow eyes,
which would in horror widen at the humble
suggestion that some thinkers have proposed
the illusory nature not only of time
but of all that is, has been, what is to be;
so in one way the righteous smashing of the vase
was relatively innocuous
yet in another way it could hardly
be considered decent theater
for tastes that appreciate true drama,
insinuating suspenseful
psychological adventures;
borderline boorish; enemy
to the harmonious chill atmosphere.
Hm, I think it is the mayor
who discovers the asian vase
within a private residence.
Newcomer to the town – the…
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confusion comes to the suspended entity
the entity standing at the motel entry
said, “you did not exactly create me.
More like a discovery if I may speak blunt.
Because I know I was somewhere and had a name
before rolling into this town which tone
feels filled with filaments bent on hostility.”
The motel fluttered several shutters and said,
“is your dialogue directed at me?”
another suspended entity
a strange entity rolled into the town
that from its inception must be called small
and whose mayor encouraged defensive
attitudes and discouraged gatherings
unless a mass would weep while on their knees,
and certainly no dungaree zippers
shall suspiciously pepper proceedings;
for the stern head was more than a mayor;
he was a man whose moral compass was
the stiffest, most rigid moral compass
to ever scale the steep courthouse stairway.
Suddenly the strange entity
paused before pulling open the motel
portal of entry; all was quite quiet.
Gave a glance around the space; furtively
did it do so. Muttered a message
addressed to its invisible creator,
“don’t tell me I will become another
component caught in a suspension
that may never know a forward
motion resolution.”
The entity’s invisible creator
whispered reply went to the effect of,
“apologies if you feel expendable,
but you know, I am also…
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library
Since interest seems inferred
and assuming the eager
beams mean the radiance is genuine,
there is territory the rabble
more or less never grace: cases and shelves
that seethe with an inexhaustible
supply of what the knowing know
as the stuff most choice for certain receptors
that tend to forget there is more to life
than year-in and year-out hibernation.
Let the finger lightly travel the spine,
Listen for the fragrant sigh of welcome.
Exposure (or dreaming of a personal space)
learning eyes are key
in the access to all the rooms
and the library
shall not in this class
be treated as more special
than say the cubbyhole for laundry.
But the opening line
did not intend to come
this far on a boring tour
but to strip and bathe with Knowledge
really, whenever I sit to try and write…
I’m either gravitating back to messing with this stuff or thinking about gravitating back to this stuff, and more and more wonder about investing in a beginner level graphics tablet as the mousing arm has grown pretty goddamn sore by now.
sapiosexuals?
Seems like it never fails: start to get ticked off to the verge of explosion because of the internet, when sure enough that’s about the time I make the odd sale or learn something new.
The existence of sapiosexuality, say. Now I would not myself lay claim to being such a sapiosexual. More like a super bashful poet-type, always lost in thought and wondering what the universe is all about and what the hell I’m doing here; will I ever compose a work of fiction I like or will I ever find that poetic voice I once knew so well and then use it free and joyous; or should I further explore image/photo manipulation? Or… ?
Then again, who am I to say that there might not be a few sapiosexuals cruising around who’d enjoy curling up with some of my humble works – nice soft bossa nova in the background…
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well it should’ve been obvious
why the image manipulation/visual stuff is extra attractive
as opposed to the writing of a work of literature, even if it is a silly sex story:
writing requires thought, concentration, focus; space and ability to think, concentrate, focus; those goodies are presently little better than fantasies for this writer-poet type.
That’s why while I can’t really draw-draw anything close to a real picture (I’ll call them Unidentifiable Graphite Objects) but I can doodle and scribble and make messes on a sheet of paper – because I am not calling on the concentration and focus faculties. Image/photo manipulation is (for me at this stage) just taking a few pictures I took and playing around with mixing and matching and colors, etc, etc…. tons of fun, but there isn’t much actual thought involved. Reflexive/reactive responses and random adjustments/button-pushing.
But to do something like write a semi-coherent stretch of words longer than a…
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maybe there really is something to the within/without/above/below
or,
maybe there is a Publish button in the brain
that is activated when pushing a Publish
button on a blog or…. yes, or a publishing
platform or outfit on the net. A magic
happens; leaps over hurdles, which were also
built in the brain; built over time; obstacles
incumbent on the wordsmith shed laborer
to overcome, find a way around; use brute
torque or force to bust through; then once it is done,
meaning the pushing of a publish button,
something happens, like an electrical charge
bringing back to life what was thought to be dead.
Come to Timmy 