Some time ago I set up the dining table as my writing desk. This was a good move because the dining room of this cottage has an old world feel that inspires me. It is, in fact, my favorite room in the house. Everything I need is here: books, the piano, photos of everyone who means anything to me, my guitars, a china hutch full of wine glasses...
The table itself is heavy wood, solid with no leaves, and seats six. It reminds me of the antique partners desk I used to have in Ventura, before my ex sold it out of spite after I left her in 1999. For some reason, though, I couldn't settle down here and write for long hours. Something was amiss. I put all of my favorite things on the table, but it didn't seduce me. Last weekend I decided to place the chair facing the room rather than the bay windows. Bam! That did it...
The numbers must be in the tens of thousands, maybe higher. Although not every squealing Beatlemaniac in the Sixties developed a genuine love of Indian classical music apart from George Harrison's contributions on the Beatles' albums, many did. His three instances of adding sitar (Norwegian Wood, Love You To, and Within You, Without You) only granted a tiny bit of exposure to a music that was so alien to our ears, we either loved it or hated it. Our parents certainly didn't get it.
Labels: The Beatles
|Poets's Sleep by|
Chang Hong Ahn, 1989
empty skulls bleaching in the sun.
Hollow sockets, gaping jaws;
I sleep on,
Their spirits try to wake me by throwing pebbles,
shattering the windows and lining the sill.
Like stones on grave markers;
don't forget, don't forget.
When I die they shall crowd around me,
holding me accountable for their premature expulsion.
Howling voices, accusing eyes;
didn't you know,
We could have lived, we could have lived.
Copyright © 2014 SK Waller
those bound, black sketchbooks and I'll transcribe the good stuff into them, adding more content, photos, drawings, watercolors, and all that sort of thing. I'll also take an X-acto knife to some paragraphs and drawings and paste them into the new volumes. Then I'll throw the originals in a barrel and burn them...
"I don't mind complaining about the weather.
It's fun and makes for good conversation."
Everywhere I went yesterday, people seemed to want to talk about the weather. Even the morning's bomb scare on the OSU campus wasn't as popular a subject as the blue, cloudless sky and warmer temperature. Talking about the weather is only natural, I guess, since it's the one thing we all have in common. We're all subject to it and, whether we complain or rhapsodize over it, we generally agree...
Originally posted on this day, 2009.
Have you ever thought that a blog could be more than just an update of someone's daily life, or a political opinion, or any other left-brain expression? What if a blog could emanate from the right brain? I think about it all the time. In fact, I've thought about it since I first encountered the medium nearly ten years ago, and I've experimented with it. In fact, I continue to experiment with it. I envision spaces on the web that make us reach beyond ourselves in the same way that literature does. Spaces where we explore the world of mind (not thoughts, mind you), a world where intuition creates the reality and invites readers into alternate realities which, in the world of literature are called "fiction"...
|A Gloomy Day by Angela Northern|
I cannot live on a size zero brain;
hearing about your hair and your friends,
and how they daily let you down.
I need the meat of brain, meat of body,
the meat of words and ideas,
the meat Goya and Boucher,
of Kant and Descartes.
The hollowness of your shadowed eyes
and practiced posturing
causes my belly to gripe and ache.
Where do I sink my teeth?
Where do I sink my body, my mind?
Where do I find you behind the shallow pretense?
Copyright © 2014 SK Waller
He was diminutive, red-haired, and freckle-faced, the epitome of the Huckleberry Finn All-American boy, a new and popular archetype in the late 19th century. Was it in the Palace Theatre in Cincinnati or the Madison Theatre in Peoria that he enjoyed his first standing ovation, received his first hugs and kisses from a large-bosomed patroness, or read his first glowing newspaper notice? I have one such item; it’s the only physical reminder I have of him...