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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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LESSONS

How easy and simple it appears in the beginning!    

The writer writes because he wants to transform the pathological into the beautiful and truthful.  

Yet, there is great beauty, sweetness, and light in the world itself, as it is.

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

I did not want to go over old roads traveled; the times demanded much more.  

Long and sonorous was to be broken up into short and intense.  

The city was to be broken up into many discrete sections.  

Yet it had to carry the same substance, it had to stand on its own. It had to satisfy.  

A form is subject to the wiles of time.    

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

Human nature is a giant meddler into things it is not prepared to meddle into.  

Memories and lessons and old failed projects litter the past. It is part of you but it is not you. You are in the present dreaming up something new while peering out into the blank universe of the future, a place to spread some righteous wings and play out into the infinite kingdoms. I know they exist. But then I never feel the need to prove it.  

The givers and takers of nothing are plentiful.

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

It makes no sense to congratulate yourself on what you’ve written and then call it a day. That is when the emptiness of purpose reveals itself.      

Intensity brought to bear at the exact moment it is needed.  

But then a soft meditation brings it all into focus.  

And pure skill shapes it.  

The mind filled with cities not yet born.  

The shapes of a passing world. Splendid!  

And when in the big beast what comes to mind?  

The ghosts are rare now but are still an influence.  

But the living are a series of predictions.  

Marvelous boundaries finally fill us.

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

Nothing said/excellent thoughts. It is good, sometimes, for a writer to think about all the words that have deceived him.  

Deception tows us to Hell.  

So many plans are concocted along the way!  

Deceptive words come out of a general calculation that one’s self-interest will be served by the world or, more importantly, by the way the words effect the actions of another.

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

Nature has plentitude, a building does not. But the building comes from the same source as nature with one simple intermediation.  

Conscious culture is always a protest against civilization. Civilization prevails because the buggers want to survive. But then it is that. Culture is the disentanglement of this from that.  

The spiritual trick is to turn a kind of hatred for civilization into compassion for those who live in it.

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