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How flowery is too flowery? How flowery can a flower be before it becomes a bush, and then a tree, and on into an entire forest? I love flowers; I love what they imply, by their mere existence. So, too, with words. How flowery can they be? An english teacher–ironically–would likely discourage it in most…
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I have no conception of who my audience is, so I find it difficult to know what subjects to focus on. I myself am fascinated by many things, and wish to share the indulgence of curiosity with as many people as possible. It is not of its own end, but is sufficiently worthwhile-enough that it…
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It is intriguing to me that a person can be–and should be–of extraordinariness and ordinariness without blinking. That it is so deeply sown within our make-up to be and become what we are most–our completed form–and our common form at once. It is not to say, of course, that we ought to strive for incompleteness,…
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I dream, I dream, I dream. I dream of many things. You cannot write if you cannot dream. One who writes is a dreamer; to lose hope in the life of our fathers and mothers is to lose what gives breath to a word. A word is without meaning in itself; it is, rather, the…
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Weary hearts seek quiet places, and hearts that are stirred look on high. #14
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“Lighter than air, I go rushing around; Lighter than light, I am not in the ground. Deeper than deep, I am found with the living; Can you go sleep, that I’ll cease from my giving? Fell with the fall like a tree that has rotten; This is my form, though it will be forgotten. Ten…
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Nonnery dockery, tickity toc, Oh, how my feet go clippity clop. Nonnery dockery, tickity toc, “Stop, you, right there!” Though stop, I will not. Eddying ponds and stirring up streams, “No, not my reeds!” They yell with a scream. Sloppity slip and slippity slop, “Eddy my pond, and I’ll get you a mop.”#12
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Rivers keep running ’til the very break of day, Clambering below them to find a place to stay. “Can’t we go on rushing, until the break of day?” “No, sirs you cannot, and that is what I say!” The warden of the rivers is found within a keep, A place of great desire, a place…
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Simply writing of a thing that is so experiential is difficult. Some things are able to be written about and loved outside of experience; we are able, for example, to enjoy a writer’s ever-weaving journey through a forest, or perhaps their simple observations of the flitting birds found on a park bench. We have known…
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It is an interesting thing attempting to condense the essence of a singular–yet fully encompassing–aspect of life. I have felt many times that there is something of an onus on writers/recorders to accurately portray what is true; and in some cases, to grow the awareness of others towards it. This is limited, in reality, since…
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