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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."


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


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?


3 short stories. $3


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



The manuscripts are under $8.


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"A piece of writing is meant to liven the mind, perform little dances, speak to spirits, know the stars and then fade down into the eternal heart of the reader."

No, anywhere else.

Sadness is a free floating thing between the old tired limbs of the oaks and the unkempt yard. Loss. The transformation from freedom to judgment is a subtle one and catches an aging writer by surprise.

No, somewhere else where there isn't such attachment. Where the bricks themselves remind one of discouragement. It is silence. You have done something wrong or bad. If you try to figure it out it will drive you crazy. But it lingers and plays the mind for a fool. So laughter itself is a still mask of death. So the adrenaline is driven through empty space that doesn't care one way or the other until finally it ends.

A kind of creepiness enters again. The old bad magic.

Sometimes it is good to remember the abyss that exists between you and the familiar.

"You have to fight from behind." Ok. I will fight from behind. I will fight out of whatever hole I am in. I will not take anything for granted. I will fight for the good of the myth. I will fight for what no one else, apparently, sees. I will fight up. I will fight down. Splendid words and concepts will emerge from the fight sprayed out and away from the physicality of the contestants.

Unrelenting days of sameness paint down on the imagination and make it a grey thing. Where are the joyous festivals with its colorful streamers, toothless brown women, and music high above the rooms where the powerful meet? Where is the release that forgives? Things shut down early in the grey town. Unrelenting traffic of anonymous cars blur with its familiar pitch. The sky bends and robs the eye of information it dearly wants.

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

They would watch me from a sealed room observing me as if I were on death row and waiting for last words and then the simple exhalation that tells them they have no further use of me.

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

"Stare into the future to help create it." Yes. It's happened before. I was a young man thinking as though I were a young bushman taken out of the comforts of the tribe to endure pain and see visions. It's true enough. It all came to pass. Wisdom swung down from the trees and swooped me up. It was more powerful than the reality that was in front of me, subject to vision and wisdom as well as other qualities.

Remarkable was the prescience of those days!

Sad for the things destined to disappear.

Then I understood some of the gestures of time.

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