Notes on the horizon
Notes on the horizon
I must have moved too far, too fast.
Time accelerates; the desert shrinks.
The horizon is demystified,
and it was all I had left.
Time accelerates; the desert shrinks.
The horizon is demystified,
and it was all I had left.
- hester_prynne
- Posts: 2363
- Joined: June 26th, 2006, 12:35 am
- Location: Seattle, Washington
- Contact:
I been packin' bags for a few years now...
Might be time to stay for awhile... for awhile, mind you...
Time keeps on acceleratin' as I get a bit older,
and fences creep out steadily across the desert,
and if I try too many unlimited horizons, I may find their limits.
So I'll ration out those mystic reaches, I guess...
Might be time to stay for awhile... for awhile, mind you...
Time keeps on acceleratin' as I get a bit older,
and fences creep out steadily across the desert,
and if I try too many unlimited horizons, I may find their limits.
So I'll ration out those mystic reaches, I guess...
-
- Posts: 21
- Joined: April 14th, 2007, 10:16 pm
Thanks all...
Every endeavor-- hell, the whole trip itself-- seems so much bigger and unlimited at the beginning, until one unpeels layer after layer of experience and limitations become manifest... outwardly, at least... It can be gradual, such as wanderering thru the relatively stable ('tho shrinking) desert southwest, for example, or it can be cruelly immediate, such as a crazed gunman's bullet or the S.S. taking a loved one. When I return to my childhood street, all the buildings used to look bigger...
And Mr. T... yes, it is journal styl-ie. Well appraised. I don't write fiction, and it was only me out on the back roads. Make sense? I have included some notes on local history and culture in my scribbing, but a lot of it is simply this type of musin'. And I ain't exactly Ed Abbey...
Every endeavor-- hell, the whole trip itself-- seems so much bigger and unlimited at the beginning, until one unpeels layer after layer of experience and limitations become manifest... outwardly, at least... It can be gradual, such as wanderering thru the relatively stable ('tho shrinking) desert southwest, for example, or it can be cruelly immediate, such as a crazed gunman's bullet or the S.S. taking a loved one. When I return to my childhood street, all the buildings used to look bigger...
And Mr. T... yes, it is journal styl-ie. Well appraised. I don't write fiction, and it was only me out on the back roads. Make sense? I have included some notes on local history and culture in my scribbing, but a lot of it is simply this type of musin'. And I ain't exactly Ed Abbey...
What a long strange Drip it's beeeen.
Oh everyone has a little Cactus Ed in their bones: even citay slickers. Your journals entertain: imagine like Mnaz's Gold. Reality show, you touring the Wild Wild West, offering commentary on scene, flora and fauna, geomorphological odes, reflections regarding the hicks and hickettes: "Mnaz here, live in Pahrump.""
Oh everyone has a little Cactus Ed in their bones: even citay slickers. Your journals entertain: imagine like Mnaz's Gold. Reality show, you touring the Wild Wild West, offering commentary on scene, flora and fauna, geomorphological odes, reflections regarding the hicks and hickettes: "Mnaz here, live in Pahrump.""
I wonder who does--and those who do impress me. My fiction is too euphamismic and dishonest. All my fiction is about me. Why say darn when I mean damn? Who am I kidding? God? Why link letters to describe some fictive other when the only letter I ever use is "I"?mnaz wrote: I don't write fiction, and ... I ain't exactly Ed Abbey...
And you ain't exactly not Ed, either.
"Every genuinely religious person is a heretic, and therefore a revolutionary" -- GBShaw
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