Two most important things in a writer’s wallet: library card and
Agonistic
The toughest battle is Mind.
Homeward
Weather is a great metaphor for life — sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, and there’s nothing much we can do about it but carry an umbrella or choose to dance in the rain.
Stellar
Winter’s cold-black celestial canvas showcases
the twinkling anatomy of Orion and his skymates…
Sir Reality
Some colors exist in dreams that are not present in the waking spectrum.
Incorporated
sunshine has no budget
the sea no red tape
trees do not license
themselves to the countryside
bees don’t invoice the flowers
there is no committee of oceans
and i’ve never seen a bird
take out nest owner’s insurance
no Physics
dancing under midnight stars
on damp grass in the dark —
a good friend by my side
youth’s music in our ears
wildcats watching hereaway
in the cool fall desert night —
zero credit hours for school
but dozens of them for life
Consenses
All we experience is reality filtered with self.
Speedway
The world is changing so fast I’ve got societal vertigo.
No.
“Bartleby, in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied,
—Herman Melville (1819–1891), “Bartleby, the Scrivener,” 1853
Infinite realities
If something is just plain red, how do we know that it isn’t actually red with red
Healthy spell
It’s no coincidence that four of the six letters in health are “heal.”
Sylvia’s figs
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.
“From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.
“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
—Sylvia Plath (1932–1963), The Bell Jar, 1963