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Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see further. A short meditation.
Brief Tales on a Whim.
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.
The manuscripts are under $8.
THE POET OF MY DREAMS[[sitting with dalmation man on shattuck in front of department store]]
Man playing violin in street. The woman who had a pack on the bus to Calgary and spoke without saying a word.
"Strange in-taking of various "speech-forces" and how it insinutates in and out of the mind with images and a variety of abstractions. It operates at all levels. And then all the crude judgements on the poor soul! The dwarf dances well in the city. I try to fight it in the middle of the street, driven now by hope, now by pain, now by a glimpse of a truth or a paradise. The dwarf is driven by pride and power and is the master of the dwarfish mediocrity treating it like a thermostat." And the dalmation man made weird gestures with his hands, an outline of some sort.
Now he spoke as he played his music. These dialogs happened all the time, came from every weird angle speech was capable of dealing out.
"How trapped I felt by the powers of the lower mind! It was as though it would hold me forever in a kind of taunting hell filled up with demons and burning sulphur, tv sets, the surge of falsity and untruth that feeds the air.
"It has the sense of the eternal about it."
"It is the fate of one who asks questions and opens ones heart to all possibilities. There is no redemption where it's not wanted."
"Yes girls, it's all horrors and delights."
"The loss of possibilities. People trapped in history. Unseen power creating destinies. Delights are elsewhere."
"Deal then young women, with a reality stronger than you."
The run-away girls were not easily impressed. They got on their haunches and tilted their heads to listen to the guy with the two dalmations. He always sat on a mat in front of the department store, playing an accordian. When run-aways or a curious passer-by came along he always talked to them. He seemed angry at the girls, almost fatherly trying to use the moment as a teaching one. The girls laughed a few times, then pulled out a few dollars and threw it on the mat, thanking the guy as if he had just sold them a good pair of shoes, and skipped off into the crowds of Shattack Avenue.
Go to the From the Start: The Poet of My Dreams
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