Sunday Morning BY WALLACE STEVENS I Complacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water-lights.The pungent oranges andContinue reading “Sunday Morning – A Poem”
“Because here’s something else that’s weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god orContinue reading “What the Hell is Water? David Foster Wallace and the Need to Believe”
If you’re among the writers of the world I’m sure you’re familiar with the monolithic resource that is the Writer’s Edit. If not (…who are you?), well they’re a one-stop shop for writers of all flavors, compiling advice and classes to nurture the seasoned novelist and the budding author alike with a global reach comingContinue reading “Writing Through a Pandemic: Writer’s Edit is Hiring Freelancers”
All of these things are true… I had been in Jordan for several weeks and my love affair with Arabian sweets had reached a lofty peak. In fact, I would begin and end each day with a platter of pastries, smothered in honeys and syrups that would flood through heaps of pistachios on my plate. Then it happened… I…Continue reading “On Arabic Sweets and the Middle East: Kunafa – NICHOLAS ANDRIANI”
“A line will take us hours maybe, Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching have been naught. Better go down upon your marrow bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather— For to articulate sweet sounds together Is toContinue reading “That Settles it, “Writing is Hard.” -Yeats”
You know how it goes:] the blustery mornings. Watery eyed and minus-7. The frozen pipes and snowed in nights. The red faced wind burns. But look at that, the stars have never been so sharp –outlined in the thin air like diamonds under keen inspection.
“I’m now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I’m working at turning myself into a seer. You won’t understand any of this, and I’m almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. ItContinue reading “Rimbaud On Sacrifice and Art”
A wild existential crisis. The narrator is living in the woods of Norway, maybe 1890’s. Going insane with every passing day while falling in love with a Lords daughter. Dark, funny, beyond its time. Norwegian authors are still years ahead.
Happy birthday to the mad Gonzo saint. Let’s cheers to this mind of threaded insanities, the functional junkie. A toast of Wild Turkey, a drive through “bat country” and the knowledge that…