Tag Archives: writing

Recording Live

   I understand that I am not only with my father and grandfather and Marie as family, but also as a writer. I am sketching them. The mechanical hand in my mind that never stops is charting and sketching and … Continue reading

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Wellspring

Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.

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Burn

Slow burn of words on a page, how to listen raptly between intervals of felt silence and tapped nerves.

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Monster

Fiction is a monster. It demands, it consumes. It is a glutton. Enough is never enough. It won’t be satisfied until the unreal becomes utterly real, beyond real. Its sole desire is to usurp reality, to surpass it. It basks … Continue reading

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Night-Thistles

I could feel the music of a slow future dying inside me. And the past very much alive, like shimmering beatific flowers, like luscious night-thistles. The past is a changeable feast. Except it is a feast that eats and eats … Continue reading

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Unreaching Anya

Anya I long to reach you only because I know that you are unreachable. It keeps my longing in a chrysalis state, a cocoon state. Nothing ever grows, it simply hums and palpitates and aspires toward growth. It is the … Continue reading

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Of Time and the River

   One thing we cannot recover is time.    Perhaps that’s what I have been trying to do.    Perhaps that’s what every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a heartsick orphan, as the fool-hero in their own movie is … Continue reading

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Quest

One thing we cannot recover is time. And perhaps every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a fool-hero on a desperate quest, sets himself this glorious, impossible task, the solvent recovery of time through the mortal fetters of a merciful … Continue reading

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Savor

I was young, fevered and full of hope. My heart, green in its country, desired to push lightning through blooms, to cherish brightly in a thousand different directions at once. It was and always has been about rounding dreams from … Continue reading

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Husk

The quiet net of one’s fingers, mute and aggrieved, yet lapping volumes of light, a measureless brood husking the dark to derive a glean, its rivet bound to the commonest plight.

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