Showing posts from May, 2020

If Art is Not a Necessity,

If art is not a necessity for the means and ways of being then I have had a curious time, and a stranger way of seeing. Let me tell it cautiously, so that all is a careful, clear. Pay heed and listen well, you storied minds who hear. See, once I waned  and thought I'd died, when in my hand I found a point, and put it fast to thin white skin and out of me poured time in joint. The hour went I know not how for I had passed beyond a paling. But then, and only then, I knew my soul robust, my state: living.

And so the Legend Fades

At the edge of a marsh there is a waste.   At the edge of the waste, there is a silver grove.  And at the edge of the grove, there is a pool of water.   The waters of the pool run crystal clear, save for the very center where the color turns inky black.   Small, dark tendrils reach out into the transparent depths.   They never get very far.  But they are always there. A very definition of lurking.             And always, always, when a passerby dips in and swims too far, the tendrils drown them.             It is only natural that stories born of 'always' transform into legend.   So it is that the myth of such a pool travels on the backs of the tales of those who would be victims, saved only by the failings of their unlucky fellow travelers.  And picked from the tales, unraveled, and restrung, the legend spreads, until it reaches the ears of those inclined toward adventure.             Thus, the pool shows no surprise when a champion of brute strength descends into its

The Cave

Once upon a time I found a cave. It had a narrow entrance and smooth damp walls.  At the very back, just above where I could reach, a fleck of light played, bathing the walls in delicate freckled patterns that spun about on some ray of sunlight that had, in a majestic fit of wonder, made its way through the stone. So much did I desire this light, that I moved a boulder and stood upon it.  Digging my fingers into the walls, I was determined to draw forth what I knew as buried treasure.  Surely, I told myself as my nails dug into the hardened surface, it was a gem of great worth.  The anxious feeling running through me told me that I would not be satisfied until I had it for my very own.  And so I picked and prodded and gauged until my fingers were raw and bleeding and could dig no more. Aching and exhausted, I sank to the floor, allowing puddled water to soak through my clothes until it met my skin.  Bumps formed, running down my arms like a wave as I shivered in the almost-darkne

Of Truth and Tales

Once upon a time, there was a man who vowed all his life to stand for what he knew to be true, and upon his oath became convinced that he knew truth itself.             To each person he came upon, he spoke of his truth in strong words and with the conviction of one who has a certainty—and with that came the overpowering urge to convince.   Naturally this led to many an argument lasting late into the night.   And in such a state, the man lived his life from day to day, journeying, and telling, and attempting to convince.             There came a day when, tired and weary, he had no more energy to devote to speech; indeed he had no more energy to stand.   Thus it was that a wayward old woman came along and found him collapsed on the side of the road, and she took him to her cottage and tended to him.   As he lay in his illness, he heard her muttering words, singing songs, and telling stories about her life for his amusement, as his recovery was achingly long.   And he, having nothin