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








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.

The Mud Hut Dialogs


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There are a variety of self-tortures depending on the cause of the wounds. It could be women, it could be money, it could be reputation, it could be a feeling that whatever one does he is condemned to a state of failure.

"Their expectations were way off-base and yet their eyes do not lie and they burn into me and make me feel less than what I am."

"My title, sir, is manager of old projects, creator of new."

The self that tortures is the same one that objectifies the whole universe. Ha.

The laughter that emerges when the easy gets real hard.

Don't wander through territory where the bones are brittle to break.

In your writing you make the mistake of believing that you can write everything out in one "block." As though you are commanded from above to do so. It's one of the myths Americans pick up because they have a feeble, tenuous relation to "what it takes."

An American is most "dangerous" when he wants to be left alone. And this is among the great desires of an American; to be left alone. And it often is the driving force behind the whole life of Americans. To be left alone, left alone; that is the dream and that is the meanness of the people; the fact they will never be left alone.

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Autobiographical notes often reveal the residual fibers of adolescent dream.

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In America it's not permissible to hover over the "mass" in dream.

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“Me work in American talk. Me no desire to influence people.

Me no be big heap leader-man.

Me no free tall tale fellow

I listen, I see, not too interesting.

Bring me two fat dinosaurs with human spirit down their flanks.

Bring me atom bomb, I eat.

Bring me evil man, I eat.

People now forget how to sing like bird. I teach. I sing like bird. All the little children sing like the whiper-will and after big sing they think like lucid muons.

You have fear of deep empty space? Ah, it is all a fine, nicens nature out there. You see.

You see how spirit comments with grunts after a while. Trees, rivers, lakes they small stuff compared to world not them.

But sincere feeling, sincere tiny meditation in heart make spine thump. You see. Haha. You see.

People suffer, people feel bad. This interesting. It mean some men can't free their intensity. It mean some men conspire slave army. You no see through how it is? You shrink in the tree of how it is? Go away bad man and eat your wheat. You mad, fearful men full of sleep.

A praise of the spirit free of the sick dreams.

Me find no community proper speaking. Me find no desire for like virginal creatures to fly together. Me find ragged, healthy emotions on surface of all skin. Me no desire to stir things up for half the time its the wrong thing. Sorry. Me big tale teller.”

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The arc that enlivens.

The great patience that the wise always refer to.

Both men and women wish to be gods in their own peculiar way. They bypass the connection and go straight for a full identification with that energy. In so doing they are made fools instead of gods.

It's more a case of what draws our attention at any given time.

A complete world, even in it artifacts. Ha.

And beyond the good Earth, what?

In that good Earth are the physical and mental aspects. I see the stars at night. Who among us articulates the intuition of dark stars? He would be the most responsible of souls. He or she would have to pass severe tests.

And when insignificance sweeps through what happens but the production of new superstitions? And a superstition is like the hit of a drug and feels, at the beginning of its journey, like liberation rather than enslavement. "Tear it down!" they say, "and free us from your stupid restraints, we need nothing of your meaningful universe." This is the cry of one who wants to start his own universe and his own tradition. But then what excuses will he make for the natural limits built into him? And everywhere the common man has come to power there are the same common troubles, even oppression if you look at the common dictators of the third world. Then, not simply the universe, but the world has a face that is unintelligent, hateful, and sinister.

The machinations of the unconscious are a regular Panther on Olympus which rules day or night and is always shrouded in mist.

Don't mistake the criticism you make with the thing itself.

All tension is essentially creative.

Ignore the talk that the world is complete and at an end. It's merely the ego of the world sick of itself.

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