elusiveness of time 

My skin crawls with dread 

Generalized metastasisized aggrandized 

It never is enough.

Time forgets what mattered

Loosened grip falsettos clamour by

Vociferation incomplete 

They have forgotten future generations.

There is no space between us

this was what she craved

Her skin crawled with dread anticipation 

of nothingness

meaningless

“nothing but a joke”

uncertainty of it all.

Why bother? 

Who’s got the time?

When did we give up?


 

Memories of Elephants

at some point
don’t you wake up
somehow
and
decide
NOT TO BE EVIL
or do you
look in the
mirror
and realize
that
what
looks
back
at
you
is
dark
and
hollow

 

 

 

 

artwork by robert montgomery at robertmontgomery.org

 

just like you

you’re never there
when
I need you
but
always around
when
I don’t

The Lie Brigade

I have learned now that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.

C.S. Lewis

  

The truth is a dangerous thing, especially to those who have been warned never to speak.

The truth leaves you alone. Abandoned. With only truth as your companion. Left for dead on a sidewalk. 

The lie, on the other hand, smoulders in embers stoked by the infinite jest. The joke is on you. What good did telling the truth do for you? Disrupted your entire life when you just couldn’t live with such seminal shame from the oblique obloquies piling up in droves, threatening your very survival. That is the absolute truth.

 
And yet your life as others have told it is only and always the lie. A lie no one even owns. A lie that has had a dangerous life of its own.

The lie gave the liar everything they asked for. The truth destroyed everything you worked your whole life for, obliterated all the things you’d had to overcome.

The sinister shadow re-invented as billowing storm. Soulless winds of evil swirl, released by those who could not only do what had been carried out, but stamp out any hope in the remains.

The truth was weaker than the lie. She could not get over that. All the liars were rewarded, every step of the way, while telling the truth had only given her more to overcome. And no one ever wanted to hear about that.

   
 The facts cannot be un-lived. The dark deceit can never be erased. No matter what is said in its place.

censure or blame  aimed at a person especially by numerous persons 

to discredit, disgrace, or bad repute resulting from public blame, abuse, or denunciation

  

  
 
  All you can ask is why? What made the liars lie? What did they gain by her demise?

What does it mean to live in truth? Putting it negatively is easy enough: it means not lying, not hiding, and not dissimulating.

Milan Kundera

The truth no one wanted to hear. The truth, twisted like the rope around the tree, unraveling the lie, over time.

Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.

Aldous Huxley

Waukegan

We talk too much, Miranda, her feverish sister Sasha said, in her low voice, no secrets come out without silence.

I do. Somehow I’ve come to believe that the last thing a writer or any artist thinks about is to make himself comfortable while he’s working. Perhaps the discomfort is a bit of an aid or stimulus. Men who can afford to work under better conditions often choose to work under miserable conditions.

He had cited his favorite writer, well at least for now, Sampson was irresistible and he knew it and felt guilty and ashamed of his unabashed pheremones and good breeding (his mother was an angel with a pixie wit and his father was some sort of apostle hero who was actually his uncle because his father turns out was some sort of wandering bipolar didn’t know it cad…and hence, this is how I revisit Perseus, Medusa (the new Molly) and the myths of a new generation based on the hidden meanings in the ancient revolving door myths:

In 1939 he went to Greece to visit Lawrence Durrell; his sojourn there provides the narrative basis of The Colossus of Maroussi. Cut off by the war and forced to return to America, he made the yearlong odyssey recorded in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. Then in 1944 he settled on a magnificent empty stretch of California coast, leading the life described in Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.Now that his name has made Big Sur a center for pilgrimage, he has been driven out and is once again on the move.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4597/the-art-of-fiction-no-28-henry-miller#

I think these questions are meaningless. What does it matter how long it takes to write a book?

-Henry Miller

From the meaningless questions to the imagination of the future:

Imagine if sixty years ago, at the start of my writing career, I had thought to write a story about a woman who swallowed a pill and destroyed the Catholic Church, causing the advent of women’s liberation. That story probably would have been laughed at, but it was within the realm of the possible and would have made great science fiction. If I’d lived in the late eighteen hundreds I might have written a story predicting that strange vehicles would soon move across the landscape of the United States and would kill two million people in a period of seventy years. Science fiction is not just the art of the possible, but of the obvious. Once the automobile appeared you could have predicted that it would destroy as many people as it did.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6012/the-art-of-fiction-no-203-ray-bradbury

I read everything by Robert Heinlein and Arthur Clarke, and the early writings of Theodore Sturgeon and Van Vogt—all the people who appeared inAstounding Science Fiction—but my big science-fiction influences are H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. I’ve found that I’m a lot like Verne—a writer of moral fables, an instructor in the humanities. He believes the human being is in a strange situation in a very strange world, and he believes that we can triumph by behaving morally. His hero Nemo—who in a way is the flip side of Melville’s madman, Ahab—goes about the world taking weapons away from people to instruct them toward peace.

I often use the metaphor of Perseus and the head of Medusa when I speak of science fiction. Instead of looking into the face of truth, you look over your shoulder into the bronze surface of a reflecting shield. Then you reach back with your sword and cut off the head of Medusa. Science fiction pretends to look into the future but it’s really looking at a reflection of what is already in front of us. So you have a ricochet vision, a ricochet that enables you to have fun with it, instead of being self-conscious and superintellectual.

The experience of great loss appears frequently in his work.

He recently told me he still lives by his lifelong credo, “Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6012/the-art-of-fiction-no-203-ray-bradbury

by 4:50 haven’t made as much progress

Tuesday’s gone with the wind 4:44 started

All these devised interfaces for me to write what I know for the immutable time capsule, the diaries of not a mad woman despite the claims by others who shall remain faceless at this point in time as this is just a platform trial and entryway error momentum: 101 cards, starting today.

Making progress.

I still think about what that icon meant when he said he hated progressives on both sides. I ponder such things. I need some sort of absolution.

going with counter-intuitive as lesson for today

card 101: See? I am not an asshole? Love letters 4 days away.