BurningbirdJust writing
Recovered from the Wayback Machine. I picked up a couple of books from the library yesterday that I’d ordered based on their being mentioned in other weblogs. One was Le Ton beau de Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language by Douglas Hofstadter. I would give credit to the person who mentioned this, in either a […]
Recovered from the Wayback Machine. I’ve had the blue funks all week, not that any of you could tell with my usual light and even-handed writing and sunny, calm temperament. This in spite of some good news about one of my domains that I’m just waiting final action on before *spilling the beans. Having the […]
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful — The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have […]
Where the path closed down and over, through the scumbled leaves, fallen branches, through the knotted catbrier, I kept going. Finally I could not save my arms from thorns; soon the mosquitoes smelled me, hot and wounded, and came wheeling and whining. And that’s how I came to the edge of the pond: black and […]
Where the path closed down and over, through the scumbled leaves, fallen branches, through the knotted catbrier, I kept going. Finally I could not save my arms from thorns; soon the mosquitoes smelled me, hot and wounded, and came wheeling and whining. And that’s how I came to the edge of the pond: black and […]