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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 Mud Hut Dialogs

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


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THE OLD HOME TOWN

The Great Pause, perhaps thatís what it was. A long period of thinking without decision. The flow is strong and little survives. But the man has to recover. That is the day he begins; when he has fully recovered from the deep adventures of youth and the frightening prospects that were revealed.

The sun is a primitive face.

Tired, finally, of himself and his laborious words he gets up off the bank side and heads for town.

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

I learned lessons, hard.

I felt bold when young because the mission seemed so daunting, given the state of things.

I learned my lessons very hard.

Pay attention! One lesson.

Those in Hell always walk around thinking they are perfect and invulnerable. Lesson Two.

Feed the mind well and it will provide excellent riches! Lesson Three.

Everything not connected to your mature state is raw material. Lesson Four.

Treat raw material lightly and with compassion. Lesson Five

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

Our clarity vanishes at the sight of a baby at the motherís breast in the open restaurant where the sun slants through.

The local is a mass of trucks.

And the hairy tattooed guy who is imitating Buddha along the shoreline has two followers now.

Forgetfulness is a mist that stays long into the evening along the streets and roofs of the city.

We are, as always, encased in heavy locks. Strange families surround us. We are permitted one dart of freedom into the rising sun.

Oh trees of beautiful nests!

It all goes. Every stick, every eyelash, every growl and fart.

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

In Berkeley, everything was said.

I heard all that was said. Sometimes the heart went up, sometimes it went down at what was said.

Saying things in Berkeley was a wild sport.

The books close, the mouths open.

Sex and politics raged over the old rooftops. Nakedness appeared in the doorway while dogs ran wild.

It was a wild, well-said place.

It taught me much about saying things.

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