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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 Mud Hut Dialogs

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


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THE SUBLIME

To move forward, go on, move on, let go and so forth. It makes sense now. The heavy head moving through the density of what-does-not-go-away. Ah, be brave and leap a bit and throw off some and jettison a lot.

I would hate to be the one to explain how the world lives, now.

"Fast, furious, with technical cohorts." The great fear and pressure is to "be left behind." I am one who would rather study it then live in it. I have lived in and out of it. I know it. It is pure skill to learn just how much to take before you break with it and use the resources it offers.

It knows more than it lets on but it must live in its own present. It's odd to see it from afar, above the clouds and against the interface with the universe, its womb. It's an endless shuffle over the landscape.

They pour objects from their mouths; there is an endless sort of energy that drags on and over the structures.

They think they are the most liberated of people but they have yet to discover their particular slaveries.

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

You need to learn from what you've done; not what others have done.

I had the literary prejudice that "form is an extension of content." But that you can learn from the form that extends and even abstract it from the source.

"I would rather discover one law that contributes to the production of truth and/or beauty than have all the riches in the world," said the young, foolish man.

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

The stark, physical description of the universe and the Earth is a necessary first gesture in the modern world, even a cleansing one; sometimes a frightening one. It puts us on a plane that is practically infinite but with all our transience fully intact.

The universe is a sublime old bugger

No doubt the universe is teeming with life just like a small hidden pond. The imaginative unfolding of the evolving earth is a startling one full of mischief.

Why did nature give us the ability to think long and discover the ways to communicate long?

So many rich densities for us to discover!

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

Oh funny animal to make things to make more things!

They make things to make distractions that destroy things.

The surface is disfigured by the antics of grown boys and their sycophants.

Ah, the beautiful languages they have raped!

The good always notice the types of weapons an epoch carries.

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

Make the work from the same intense curiosity that started the path to begin with.

Surrounded by the delightful videos, the sounds that cannot be captured, the speeches that sound like drowning rain after a while; surrounded by everything one is not.

I will not account for a trillion things tomorrow.

This is why there is discrimination and thoughtfulness!

The humble air tumbles effortlessly down on our nonplussed heads.

An ant-farm is impressive but does it create beauty?

Yes, at the beginning was what? Sour anger and confusion. Boundless energy fighting out of inherited constriction. Receptivity to the new, the innovative, the idea, the grand plan. Extinction. The Monkey-Wrench. A crash of expectations.

A spirit goes where the light springs flow.

Ghosts and dogs test him.

And then, after a moment of ecstasy or exaltation, guilt and terrible sadness. The longing for the lost. The scorn of eyes that know.

They would beat me for a couple of words.

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

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