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

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tolarstories


eidestories



eidestories



moreeidestories



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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ABSORPTION AND A WRITER'S DREAM

Absorption of city, suburb, freeway, stadium, trains and planes, airports, silly people, obnoxious people, and saintly people. The color driving through the day. A pure density of green. A moment before the sun comes and heat dances on the leaves with speckled blue between the spaces; a covering for the infinite darkness and its taunting light.

Absorption of the past.

"Past, you are a mighty thing and fight against every tendency to destroy you."

The thousand cameras are like the eyes of insects making us laugh at the outrageous speed of the mind when it is thoughtless.

Pictures of countless conmen who successfully negotiate the spirit of the people. Oh damaged people! Closed down for all the splendor around them.

"You stick with the materials that make you effective. You develop higher synthesis of the materials. And add in only to be more effective."

It is important to order things through the phases of development but it is also important to destroy the phases of development or laugh at them.

Art and wisdom; the playful synthesis at the high levels. Devil take the hindmost. Let the buggers figure it out themselves.

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

We begin as lost men in the mountains with ca-ca spewing from our mouths against our will. It flows down our mouths like a putrid gravy into the dead Earth. We know, then, we are not the angels we took ourselves for and try to make our way back up into the meadow of splendid visions.

A king of nothing! He is saluted and runs boldly through the small shrines and temples we make.

Empty, anonymous houses line the road to Hell.

It is on the surface. It knows no boundary.

Paved into it are the faces of the dead, their mouths prepared to speak. Yelp! Discuss! Make a case!

Men and women move from the houses with fierce determination to fill the streets and make a glum carnival out of nothing.

A man who sells Chinese food from his hut is the pretext for wild insults. Mad youth rampages and turns over everything in its path.

The day is a pounding head with eyes deep into the sense of dread. It is a day that sweats nightmares below the white day-gleam of the moon.

A man carries a moon on his back from morning to night.

He crosses the line of sight from horizon to horizon and becomes a puff of smoke.

We would explode then in laughter and delight on some final night we knew would come.

Sustained as we are by fine music from behind the trees, just below where the steam flows from the underground venting system.

A man is measuring the long street and declaring that the lines that meet from either end start either the descent into Hell or ascent into Heaven. A crowd gathers and applauds him wildly knowing they have seen something not shown on TV. They are happy something confirms a reality outside the spoon feeds of the innocuous screen. All screens. Big ones and little ones. Screens! Heads. Properties of the indivisible light.

Awful silence becomes a virtue just before we think it is going to destroy us for good.

"There is only one thing stronger than God and that is a mother's harsh voice."

A minor devil has visited this town and scorched it with the only thing it needs: cynical laughter at everything that tries to crawl from under the rocks. So, at least, we know something of the reality of things.

They suddenly smell themselves and realize they are not dogs and they are not alone.

Grand theories are expounded along the forlorn beaches that look out on the vast ocean. Nothing. Nothing but life, more and more life, life never ending, swallowing even the good and spectral thoughts. Everywhere men go there is danger; there is resistance to his life. He is forced to the surface and remains there waiting for some dark secret to fall down among the trees. "Here man are clouds. You must not live in them."

This is about the time good stories should be told.

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