Tag Archives: writing
Alighted, to course sweetly toward benign silence– To mend, flowers kiss. (Watercolor by Henry Miller) Advertisements
Not burning, not siege, not flood, not cold front, not atomic scourge, can destroy the Word, a lasting first, and inviolable measure, voiced to raise itself eternally anew.
How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.
Everything we attempt and seal creatively, every last and first word completed, reigns as beautiful failure, a mortal short-hand and forger’s touching testament to the Source, rounding what dreams may come and fade and come again.
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
Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune.
Slow burn of words on a page, how to listen raptly between intervals of felt silence and tapped nerves.
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
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