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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 SHORT, HAPPY HISTORY OF A WRITING LIFE by David Eide:
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I've always done the purely American thing. I've always got myself deeper into things than I wanted to. I don't listen to people. I laugh off their threats or admonitions. I don't care if everyone else hates what I do, I do it anyway. But then there is always the question of money. That was and is the demon. And I feel it at my ass knawing on the fleshy part quite frequently of late. While I love the stability the middle-class creates I can't relate to it beyond that. It is a class. It is offended by the extraordinary or the mere sacrifice for art. It stays away from writers and artists and sometimes for good reason.
It took me years to even approach the question. "Ah, we are merely waiting for you to come to your senses and then we will destroy you!" It often feels like that. But wouldn't people dominated and buried by money and things appreciate the ability to see life without money and things? Wouldn't they then go back to their money and things refreshed? No. They want sacrifices for their hard won identities money and things have given them.
I was very happy to leave the city. It had ground its screws into me. It said, "yes, I am a prison," and so I fled it. What a beautiful time followed! How it has all gone, taken away by the wind. I always embraced what the culture-at-large despised be it poetry, family, knowledge, citizenship, truth, beauty, child-rearing and a host of things the culture sacrifices on behalf of its desires. Ah, it wants to be like the nobles they see depicted in movies! I really don't care since the premise of the whole is set up to do exactly what I have done.
That is, live a life of meaning taking nothing for granted and seeing the destruction of all you know and all you love.
And then start with the simplest love possible.
Much density passed through. The key is sensibility knocked out piece by piece in the middle of life or during it. It grows and develops through time, never the same piece with a whole its own but related to all other pieces.
The House was divided, most especially between a personal life and personal obligations such as making a living and the Writing. That was both separate and conflated at different times. Sunoasis.com belonged to House, davideide.com belonged to Writing. The House, its layers of history, its conflicts and so on absorbed a good deal of the cultural history of those decades. The Writing often tried to fight them off. It was a House of Men in some ways. The women were driven out either against their will or quite willingly. The House encouraged the rambunctious nature of boys.
The Writing could take place in the open, under a tree, in a sparsely populated park as well as in front of the damnable screen.
A writer writes. He may think, do, say and many of the other functions of life. But he primarily writes. The freer he writes the better off he is although there is an ideal, unapproachable sort of freedom and one struggled for between a dangling leg and outstretched arm.
Oh enough he says. Have at it. Do the deeds.
Cut a path into it.
Even a nightmare has one redeemable seed in it. It is in the hand the moment the floating ghoul is about to pounce.
In one nightmare, certainly, the ghoul is a man with his wives and consorts observing the victim and making comments about who he really is.
In another nightmare, the ghoul is the mask for thugs ready to beat the victim up because he has chosen silence and prayer.
In another nightmare the ghoul is a kind of pure hatred only realizable in families.
In another nightmare the ghoul is filled with the used masks of those the victim has known.
And certainly in one nightmare the ghoul is the thing left unsaid after all the circles have been completed.
The shock on discovering that where one thought was substance is a big empty place.
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