November 2010
6 posts
Before asking him to describe one thing at this very moment that would be an immediate and hard hitting joyous injection. Yes, before that. I described myself saddled up atop a giraffe’s spine, swaying along slowly as he moseyed his way across the sand, it slid down his from hoofs. Yes, I was riding a giraffe across a comfortable and temperate desert, contently seated beside an equally jolly...
“But lately I’m feeling more like an ostrich, or something. You know? Like I’m moving way too fast without being able to take flight…” he said with a subtle hint of depression and the staleness of a beaten horse. To which she replied “there’s a reason we don’t have wings,” vague enough to not resolve nor diminish much, but mostly to save her...
The people around me love the prose I compose, but it’s the people around them and the people around them that I want to impose; stick their noses in and commend my flow. It’s not acceptance I seek, that I’ve found but not in abundance, not blown up like the victor of Sundance. I want publishers lining up, waiting on the next big portrait of an era to be scribbled down followed...
How early on in adolescence can one see right through you? After all the muck and mile from childhood clears is our skin nothing more than rice paper giving us form for our predestined growth. Is it from the direction we choose as a child? A certain lunchbox is just unlocking a specific door. No no, that’s too early, or is it? At what age are you “tall enough for this ride?”...
