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❝I will write for us both❞

Leters Home

Nomads

What was left of the waterfront house became iconic, and we, the religious defenders of Gulfport relics:

One six-volume encyclopedia of medicine, the Screwtape Letters, one particularly sacrosanct corkscrew— no longer in commission, distressed family photos, loose Ex Libris, the candelabra, sixteen piano keys

No Mother, nothing is sacred, not while there are games to be played and walls to wash away, lacking the refinement of survival.

theparisreview:

“I certainly know how it will end. In fact, I build everything toward the last sentence, which is the first thing that occurs to me in writing a book. It’s like throwing a stone into a lake and then swimming and diving to fetch it. You can swim all over the place, you can dive and weave among the reeds, you can do anything you want, but when you finish, and you grasp the stone, the path between it and the place you start is a straight line. This ‘chalk line’ is what I use to keep my intentions honorable, my plot simple, and my themes in reverberation.
“Knowing the beginning and the end means that the middle is where the surprises are, where the characters and the book take on lives of their own, where the work becomes an adventure—but a disciplined adventure, because the ultimate purpose and the origin are known and firmly kept in mind. This fits quite nicely, in an aesthetic sense, with the notion that God does not play dice with the universe.”
—Mark Helprin, The Art of Fiction No. 132

theparisreview:

“I certainly know how it will end. In fact, I build everything toward the last sentence, which is the first thing that occurs to me in writing a book. It’s like throwing a stone into a lake and then swimming and diving to fetch it. You can swim all over the place, you can dive and weave among the reeds, you can do anything you want, but when you finish, and you grasp the stone, the path between it and the place you start is a straight line. This ‘chalk line’ is what I use to keep my intentions honorable, my plot simple, and my themes in reverberation.

“Knowing the beginning and the end means that the middle is where the surprises are, where the characters and the book take on lives of their own, where the work becomes an adventure—but a disciplined adventure, because the ultimate purpose and the origin are known and firmly kept in mind. This fits quite nicely, in an aesthetic sense, with the notion that God does not play dice with the universe.”

Mark Helprin, The Art of Fiction No. 132

No Title

Everyone writes we’re too far from the sea 

And each one wants to get out.

The first time, heartfelt, it was cool to admit, but now

Floating through complacent streets— a common exhale to late-night stumblers:

I’m on my way.  My friends are here. 

No one doubts love in a city of mauve.

‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since time began; the thing that maws and mutilates our race, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a lung.

—Herman Mellville

Silty Ales

There is a particular impression of frailty all men experience at some moment in their lives—a instant that feels so near to the end, and perhaps sometimes, by circumstance, is quite close indeed. From this encounter forward, his lifestyle will alter in such as way as to provide for the particular destruction which he came to foresee: he incessantly looks both ways, compulsively stores food, joggles the doorknob at whim; he fanatically minds the gap. The man is conceivable too, that once impressed with the vision of ending love, will fight for his evaporating companion with each zealous press of his dum-dum heart—and hastening their distillation of soul, unaware. And the narrator would know the fate of this man, like the fate of all the counter-strikers, who strike against the smack of God, and strike against themselves. Her leaden chest would sink in her chair back—or fold to her lap—with consciousness of the psyche’s civil war and the harpies’ hands clenching her throat. Renounce today, feast your eyes, fearfully now, upon tomorrow. In spite of her apprehension and the particularly unrevealing nature of cerebrally-borne semantics, she will note the fight: the swallow despite the harpies’ seize. Affections subsist after lovers divide; she covets the eventual cause of his kind (his favorite person), longing to be a flea in the plague: irresistibly infectious, a killer at least.

Brother

Three Mays ago Turner and I bought a few bass for the tank and fished a bit that summer, each in our own rusting rowboat. I’d lie back at night with a flashlight over my chest, beaming upward to the trees, and the sky would be black against the ghostly leaves, illuminated from below— a picture only fostered by that artificial light— so that as I drifted over the water I could never decide whether the wrongness of artificiality tempered how nice it all seemed.

Stoked

Come down to the fire, lie back in the ashes

While they sift through the grass, greeting the earth.

Take smoke in your lungs and sparks on your lashes,

Hear the snapping of smoldering branches.

And if you can’t meet me on terms not my own,

To lie on the hearth of the mother at home,

She calls you still to play with a power

Strained reactions— inhibited fire.

So light one up. So sit with a candle.

Breath my name as you slide down the window.

We’re Not That Hard

The years think I’m someone immuned to the cause

A soul in a stone who works without pause.

My blood runs more filthy, forlornly than most

Concealed in charisma and thunderstorms both.

West Texas, it’s been wonderful.

West Texas, it’s been wonderful.

There are things that only Texans could ever understand

There are things that only Texans could ever understand

Take a load off your mind, listen to the boys, and think about Rome. 

Take a load off your mind, listen to the boys, and think about Rome. 

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face

—Albert Camus (via themetaphysicalclub)

(via younghegelians-deactivated20110)

It is not down in any map; true places never are. Herman Melville.

It is not down in any map; true places never are. Herman Melville.

"The free man is just an erratic jerking phantom without any rhyme or reason at all." Richard Taylor

"The free man is just an erratic jerking phantom without any rhyme or reason at all." Richard Taylor

“If only you’d remember before you ever sit down to write that you’ve been a reader much longer than you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world [you] would most want to read…” J.D. Salinger

If only you’d remember before you ever sit down to write that you’ve been a reader much longer than you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world [you] would most want to read…J.D. Salinger

Nº. 1 of  2