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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.


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The writer lets things live through him, writes, reflects, revises, and then applies some magical dose of artistry to take it all out of the realm of fact and into truth. This is the practice.

If it were so easy!

It's not easy but it is something that self-discipline will teach over time. If one survives.

I wanted to live like the Greeks: Outside the home, seeking truth, inquiring of my fellow citizens who they were and what they thought. Keeping vision alive, keeping the pulsing thing alive until even the dead streets were a living thing.

The world seemed so extraordinary, so starkly mad, so unlikely to survive that it gave a young man bold plans.

"Sat in parks with my back against stout oak trees and read or wrote while watching people practice oriental arts or dogs fornicating or bums pissing or, sometimes, a divine sort of emptiness. Always pretty quiet. And not one park but many parks."

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"America unleashes the creative spirit." That's what the politicians say and I believe them. An American writer will take on an immeasurable amount of stuff since he has the naive belief he can solve anything with his native genius. "This is a land that belongs not to aristocratic elites but to the people who are free to pursue their goals," so they say. The pure and ideal American attempts to exist even where the dream has grown rancid and the people are mere ghosts out of history not yet face to face with the future.

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It does more good to simply cut away what fouls the senses than it does to continually snipper at it like a deranged, little dog.

The modern world is a kind of maze built for rats to test them in the laboratory of the mad.

Mediocre minds telling other mediocre minds what to do and say does not produce a better culture.

A culture, in other words, that can stand eyeball to eyeball with all the effects the modern world has created.

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I am on the side of those who discover new things, who risk the ego of life for something greater, who know that even a great nation has a lot of unfinished business, that expression and liberation of the energies of life is only the beginning, never the ending.

Popular culture reminded me of a prison or a military installation where some agency has spent millions of dollars in free meals for the inmates who stand in long lines waiting for slop to be dished up on a metal plate.

Those things that destroy are meticulously organized and easily accessed. And those things that are demanding and difficult are hard as nails to get to. The hard work and search required has a prime characteristic: sacrifice.

So the artist had to have a sense of adventure.

And in the adventure he meets with death and his deep fear of death. And he meets with the solace of the truly wise, those few. And he meets with the taunts and jeers of even those he trusted the most. And he meets with murderers and horrific hatred. All for a few seeds, a few scratches on paper.

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