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Like at least one other writer, I have bad skin. It does the unforgivable trick of itself all over my body. My body made of bones. It goes around my body being skin and starting small fires. I can feel it on the back of my neck, over the vertebrae, just sitting there, starting fires
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It collects in the high corners first never stopping so slow it’s like dust on your fingers but you’ve stopped moving you’re not dead you’ve just stopped moving and anything like it is like that it starts in the ceiling corners and then it melts the walls brown and drippy like that time you had
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On the path, you take the tools. Tools take you? No. Your journey. Oh but is it yours? What is yours? Are you on the ownership trip or the skipaway ship across the bay? The difference is subtle, the difference is suffering. Which do you want? Doesn’t matter. Want and need are different beasts, far
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Alright, here’s the deal: you have to move your hips. I’m not normally one to give advice, especially not without being asked, especially not on the Internet, and especially not on a blog that’s normally so… You have to move your hips. You have to move your hips. You have to move your hips. Does
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“What do you see up there, brother?” “No more than you.” Perception is an illusion, and we are the aggregate. Is there more to say?
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I’ve passed countless hours on the road, so many that trying to corner my thoughts on this subject is slippery business. I’ve seen rainbows, moonbeams, blood smeared on asphalt, unrecognizable metal and carrion, towns without name, cities without faces, entropy in wheat fields, the erection of man’s progress, his folly. I’ve run for my life,
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Writers sometimes think up sentences that say beautifully what is intended, and they rush to their device to capture it in the light; they are crushed if they miss the portal. That’s sort of what it is, inspiration. Precision coming from practiced skill does not always make the best sentence, like this one. I know
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You see the same kind of dangerous stupidity repeat itself. American Neo-Nazis with tucked tails hide themselves in crimson sweatpants and goose-step like hens on parade. The movement looked ridiculous the first time, and then it had the clinical precision of a bureaucratic ego bruise to lend it something of a paint-by-numbers fearsomeness. These fools
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Lorraine The Wrighter 