Saturday, March 08, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Clubbing 1988
A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”
As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.
© Charles Scott 2013
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”
As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.
© Charles Scott 2013
Clubbing 1988
A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per
day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it
involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some
obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel
literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel
like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted
a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe
Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut
as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and
raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One
thing remains, it is still just an exercise.
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”
As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.
© Charles Scott 2013
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.
Clubbing 1988
The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--
All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!
Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.
Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”
“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”
Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.
“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”
Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.
Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”
“Jenny.”
As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.
© Charles Scott 2013
To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
"To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done." JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975
To finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
To
finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word
down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and
leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
"To
finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word down
and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and leaves
the writer behind, for no story is ever done."
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975
To
finish is sadness to a writer—a little death. He puts the last word
down and it is done. But it isn't really done. The story goes on and
leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
JOHN STEINBECK, The Paris Review, fall 1975
Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/s/steinbeck_john.html#tu0Jbd6ZZPBLqcYt.99
Monday, February 10, 2014
Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture. Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite. Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."
See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.
© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's © Sid and Marty Krofft
See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.
© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's © Sid and Marty Krofft
Words paint beautiful pictures. One does not
need to be verbose or a sesquipedalian to paint a mental picture.
Sometimes, when being wordy one comes off as a written blatherskite.
Think Hemingway on Faulkner, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think
big emotions come from big words?”. With that, I share quite possibly
the best lyric ever written. It is from the song, Jumping Jack Flash by
the Rolling Stones, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag."
See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.
© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's © Sid and Marty Krofft
See, best lyric ever that paints a beautiful picture. The picture that comes to my mind's eye is that of Witchy Poo from HR Pufnstuf. Sure, she does not have a beard, but she is a hag. Pretty sure she is toothless too.
© Chuck Scott 2013 except for the picture. that's © Sid and Marty Krofft
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Two Poems Bukowski
gamblers all
sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
Charles Bukowski
What A Writer
what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
Charles Bukowski
Two Poems Bukowski
gamblers all
sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.
you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.
Charles Bukowski
What A Writer
what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
Charles Bukowski
Saturday, December 28, 2013
2 Poems
Visions of the Internet Anarchist
Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.
And Julian Assange is
aroused.....
Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.
And Julian Assange is
aroused.....
Same Shit, Different Day
Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.
Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.
Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.
© Chuck Scott 2013
2 Poems
Visions
of the Internet Anarchist
Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.
And Julian Assange is
aroused.....
Revolution is a series
of keystrokes, in a
dark room with the glow
of a laptop.
Triple espresso mocha latte
to the right,
all natural cigarettes
on the table, and many more
snuffed out in the ashtray
to the left.
And Julian Assange is
aroused.....
Same Shit, Different Day
Time fades from the past
bright in the present,
slowly lighting the future.
Hazy memories
hide present mistakes
destined to repeat,
as the future grows brighter.
Never learning,
stagnant, always moving
forward.
© Chuck Scott 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Something to read while I take a break from writing......
Something to read while I take a break from writing......
Saturday, June 15, 2013
chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott
chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...
chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott
chuck scott: Five Questions with Chuck Scott: *Some days I have lots of time to daydream. This is a result of my daydreaming of being a published novelist/essayist/blogger of great renow...
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....
I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness.
Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..
I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver.
Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....
Men Say They Know Many Things
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
Henry David Thoreau
I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver.
Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....
Men Say They Know Many Things
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
Henry David Thoreau
Because I feel an obligation to post something, no matter how inane.....
I have been busy as of late. I have been writing short stories and some other stuff that seems to stay in a form of incompleteness.
Sending out poems and such has a way of taxing my soul.--I am an impatient man..
I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver.
Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....
Men Say They Know Many Things
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
Henry David Thoreau
I have a couple of rewrites to do, and that in itself makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a broken screwdriver.
Until I finish, I leave you with this, written by someone else who is long dead....
Men Say They Know Many Things
Men say they know many things;
But lo! they have taken wings, —
The arts and sciences,
And a thousand appliances;
The wind that blows
Is all that any body knows.
Henry David Thoreau
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