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and the rest is history sort of......DAVID EIDE.COM

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tolarstories


eidestories



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hellstories



eidepoems


Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see further. A short meditation.
"A silent conjunction between what one thinks and what has been thought."



parables

Brief Tales on a Whim.
There is nothing more pitiful than the storyteller without his stories.



nuclear

Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?


fatstories

3 short stories. $3


lamentations

In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
"But then, who will save us from our own crimes?"


eidestories

political

The manuscripts are under $8.
NEW!

THE SHORT, HAPPY HISTORY OF A WRITING LIFE by David Eide:


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MEDITATIONS ON VANISHED TIME  

Every year had its peculiar hostilities.  

I read books and listened to games. I drove cars and drank wine.  

I wrote.  

In the absence of dreams in the great liberal republic, I dreamt.  

In the loveless world, I loved.  

In the world of silence, I spoke.  

In the world of cold refusal, I listened.  

In the world of excess, I had self-discipline.  

So the days go, they go.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  

“He knew too much for his own good. Couldn’t cut through the stone. Scared by masks!”  

Who comes to piss on the writers aspirations is revealed as an eternal devil.  

Who let the shadows he knows so well, dance around him without restraint?  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Roll over the undaunted past. It doesn’t belong to anyone but time. Only a few nuggets are, ultimately, useful. The present is a carnival of interesting diversions and meets at the corner of Systems and Freedom Avenues. The happy manifestations of glum and gleeful faces. The fits and starts of troubled humanity. What does one have to read but the cavalcade itself? The future; the mind seeks it now that it has seen some evidence of the real universe.  

It knows the firm Earth, its reality, a spot in infinity; a reality, a fact.  

All follows the fact.  

Empty years, filled with our forgetfulness.  

You write precisely because no one cares.  

“Care enough to compensate for the lack of care in the world.”

“Yes’um it be a hard ting to see the actual sacrifice our devotions have cost.”  

“It's one of many tests. And if more were to come would you go on?”  

“I have to go on, no choice in the matter; the Rubicon was crossed long ago. It is a distant memory. I am deep in the heart of the beast and have seen his red-glad eyes.”  

I don’t know what it is. Devotion. Amazed confusion of what different runs are available. The utter reality of the thing. Stand up.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Life can be good. Yet, what does it inspire? What does it hold out as something better than itself?  

It is reduced to scavenging in pretty offices.  

Yet the sea is good this time of year.  

And the wilds fill us with wanton imagination.  

And we know our region is all regions.  

Words spurt up out of the intercourse with the world as-it-is.  

We ride on the systems and they lift us for fleeting glances at the fleeting world. It will never know itself. Its fabrications will fall before another wild generation. Songs will be sung differently.  

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