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Tue Aug 7 2001 at 17:37:29 (19.2 years ago )
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Thu Oct 15 2020 at 11:14:41 (1.8 weeks ago )
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252 - View O-Swirl's writeups (feed)
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19 (Poobah) / 19135
C!s spent
mission drive within everything
To heal, to see better, to help others when I can.
En route to finding.
Couldn't even begin to explain.
most recent writeup
Psychiatric Ward
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June 6, 2020: I am trying to improve, but I'm a rather large and complicated mess. I've painted some in recent years, volunteer at the Humane Society when I'm able, and when I occasionally check in here I am sometimes embarrassed by the writings I posted so long ago... feels like several lifetimes back. That's ok- at least I was writing. Fellow noders have been quite kind toward my most my stuff on E2, which was very encouraging considering the quality of writing allover E2. Thank you. If I manage to post any new stuff here it will probably be weird. And uhhhhh… yeah. It would be interesting if I do I guess.

A few great reads to consider:
1Q84, by Haruki Murakami
The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery
The poetry of W.B. Yeats
When Mystical Creatures Attack!, by Kathleen Founds

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace

"All sane people resemble one another. Each crazy person is insane in their own way."
~Playing with Anna Karenina's opening line.



with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead...

we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

~ W.S. Merwin

Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries

~T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land


"When all the archetypes burst out shamelessly, we plumb the depths of Homeric profundity. Two cliches make us laugh but a hundred cliches moves us because we sense dimly that the cliches are talking amongst themselves, celebrating a reunion... Just as the extreme of pain meets sensual pleasure, and the extreme of perversion borders on mystical energy, so too the extreme of banality allows us to catch a glimpse of the Sublime."
~Umberto Eco, Travels in Hyperreality



September 1, 1939
W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odor of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
>From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analyzed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.






My fiction:
China bones
Since his eyes were like perfect packed suitcases
College girl's minuet
Vasco Da Gama's sense of smell
The Inch
Save your tender loving care for the nuclear fireball in June.
The Daughter: Me. The Game: Shantih
I need more violence, more violins.
Mickey Moone
Each one was the scene where you hold your breath
My Bolero
To the drive who keeps taking me
Prosenoder's Cup 2003
We are only guilty of living. It's unavoidable being art.
At night, her eyes closed, she would
All these things we'll one day swallow whole
The trouble with Satan's son
Fit for an island
The Jogger
Wal-Mart greeter throwdown

Excerpts from my book of fiction "Item of Closure," 2001:
Remember me, I used to live for music. Remember me, I brought your groceries in.
There is a panther stalks me down
Her photography captured little beautifuls and me
Dream, discord, and a cricket concerto
Ducks can swim. What about her pearls?

Here's a handful of personal pieces that were well-received:
How fast do you play the piano on speed?
Tina's dirty parts
Time is a river without banks
We are only guilty of living. It's unavoidable being art.
The Power of Art
Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
One afternoon at the laundromat
What The Dukes of Hazzard and Mystikal have in common
Brushy Fork
Low Smokes With a Cartoon
Severance from a Ravishing Spirit
He'd experienced a horror I had not
Everybody knows a Kramer