June 2010
7 posts
Two writers sat down for a meal, carefully avoiding any talk of their art. They shared stories of their wives and children, of cars to let loose on the fast lane, of tech gadgets to play with as only boys play, exploring all keys and functions. They mentioned their fathers in passing and how similar they had become to them. They had a laugh, and when the pretty waitress with the blond hair bun...
May 2010
18 posts
art by: cyn kuhn
April 2010
15 posts
March 2010
16 posts
I like to think of my own writing. I like to think of my own writing. I really do. I like to think of my own writing as a game between my unconscious (using the concept ‘my unconscious’ losely, including, among others, your unconscious) and my conscious mind (using the concept ‘mind’ losely as well, including, among others, your minds). I like to think of my own writing as something that...
The writer wants to write a story about Patsy Ann, the Bull Terrier, who was stone deaf from birth like the writer. Like the dog, the writer hears the whistles of approaching ships long before they come into sight, and like the dog, he’s never wrong. He wonders if his subject isn’t too small though. He wants to give something back to the municipality, who has treated him well even though he’s...
He kept his pants on and made a stupid face, or so it seemed to him. There were no limits to the stupidity of faces on a man. He put it down to a lack of experience. Writing was so easy, too easy, but doing the right thing with a woman, a new woman, was difficult, too difficult. It required much more than imagining, which he was good at, it required dedication to something not just outside of...
Today I’m agonizing over trivialities but with so much passion! I like to think of Nabokov and his butterflies: nothing wrong with collecting baseball caps either if you can’t muster up the patience to learn long Latin sentence serpents. Perhaps it’s time for some Hesse: The Glass Bead Game. Glass beads are wonderful items: iconic little globes that contain worlds beyond our...
I don’t think I’ll ever talk to her again. I can feel her disquieting energy seep in the water. Like a baby pooping. Then they have to close the pool and clean it up. I wonder if I left the burners on at home. I’m getting so forgetful lately. The water is nice today. Could be warmer though. Ick! She just touched me with her knee. Of course she didn’t do it on purpose. As...
What will you do when you realize that you don’t know why you’re on this Earth. I mean, you’ve lived, you’ve loved, you’ve looked at things and you’ve done shit and all that - you got the pictures to show for it and even emails. What else can there be? Yet you know, against all brainwashing rationality, with the creative little pimple on the back of your...