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and the rest is history sort of......DAVID EIDE.COM

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tolarstories


eidestories



eidestories



moreeidestories



hellstories



eidepoems


Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see further. A short meditation.
"A silent conjunction between what one thinks and what has been thought."



parables

Brief Tales on a Whim.
There is nothing more pitiful than the storyteller without his stories.



nuclear

Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?


fatstories

3 short stories. $3


lamentations

In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
"But then, who will save us from our own crimes?"


eidestories

political

The manuscripts are under $8.
NEW!

THE SHORT, HAPPY HISTORY OF A WRITING LIFE by David Eide:


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IT IS NATURE

I am at the powerful ocean and the powerful ocean draws me into wonderful thoughts and feelings about the life of the human species and time and darkness. Then I am (within an hour) on a mist-filled mountain and the beginning of raging rivers bounding through the granite of our own hidden sea cliffs. A slender valley of lonely farmhouses and their implements; green, the extraordinaire, is a sun. And when I hear the ignorant say the desert is empty I know it is fuller than their own brains.

We are so rich in it that we hardly notice the sky.

The sky opens and closes to reveal our truest state of mind. When it closes the mind is drawn down into what nature demands we do. When it is open the mind arches to the trails of ancient probes. We see old friends now exist in the void.

Isn't the city a thing built for this nature that comprehends us?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So it says, "We are in this thing: The epoch of striking colors and babbling nonsense. Of ugly, harsh women and their professors. Of soiled relations and window dressing; ornamentations and bubbles of froth. A nightmare to truth and beauty; a challenge to any half-sentient being.

An epoch of drowning hopes and aspirations, an era cracked against itself."

Or is it that simple? Perhaps it is the opposite of what we think and feel at any given moment. Our disgust lasts a moment. It's been forced on us so we conspire with a lingering swarm where we pluck out a seed or two and wait for the growling light.

Our city!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The passage and the change; the passage and the change. Nothing will be the same at the end of the passage and the change.

Vision is a powerful and liquid thing and cleans all before it.

How come a poet, a despised man if ever there was one, a man who despises well when the situation calls for it, who despises what so many hold dear, and who is hated the more his despising is known, produces such beauty?

In America one listens to many but knows only a very few.

It is a joy, sometimes, to see the disintegration of political ideas.

Nihilism appears a mighty force and prepares to conquer everything in its path. But in the end the nihilist whimpers before the mystery of life and death and vanishes without a trace.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


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