The Right Column

Full Moon Wednesday, but it will be Tuesday in Australia.

 7:12 AM 
 March 22, 2016

 
 
 how about an old draft?:
from poem page 233
 
  At 8:23:44 PM EDT on Tue Sep 4, 2012 bperil wrote:

  "I wrote 12 novels."  says the dry-wall guy
    "Each of them was about a past life
     living 
    first in Philadelphia,
    then in Burlington Vermont
 Then in Lowell
    Then in Alston/Brighton;
    then in Milford, MA
 then in Ann Arbor Michegan,
  next it was about being a farm boy in 
     rural next to everywhere;
     Next I was president
  Then I was a shoe shine boy
      Then I was a prisoner, no body understood me, no body cared. I 
    built myself a prison and went in there
    and strangled myself.
 After that I found God, my favorite 
        novel of all
    the real reason for the Novel
 And the final book
    I was in Heaven.

The thing about a draft, like that one, is that it might be wounded and unrepairible, in a sense. If you look for a coherent theme in it, I am hoping it doesn't show up. It's a poem written in the trance of self-importance of automatic writing, and while it will be a poem, perhaps somethign that people would love to read and fawn over, it isn't carfully considered, nor is it culled for possible fallacies. Thus it is in need of edit.

But then if I never get back to it, it exists 'out there' in my giant collection of pages, as an artifact to what my life was then. In 5th grade Miss Hamilton told me that I didn't finish things. I needed to finish things. It's been a curse, of sorts, to be a person who can do the bulk of something, but then be unable to put the finishing touches on it. So curse be broken.

But as far as being able to 'fix' things: I have that capacity. And as far as 'finishing' things, in software there is always room for improvement. And that was my main way to make my bread before the whole endevour seemed too scary and litigious, like that great big unspoken zombie-appacalypse Human Resources person wanted to eat my face off. Then the economy went sour and for 7 years I've toiled here in my self made inferno trying to stay warm.

More of my own problem: lapsing into poetry through prose. At least I gave Miss Hamilton a quick witted and semi-clever response. It had been a Valentines Day project. It was a heart. I told her it was called 'the unfinished love'. That is the first title that I remember creating. I knew, of course, that she was correct. I did have issues with creating things. And I always worked alone, so there was no body to pick up my slack. My parents never helped me with my homework. I would try and get my dad to show me math, but he usually didn't get it.

Well, so, hearts. that brings me to another topic: the use of symbols to give secret messages. Alledged in some article to be about . . . protecting the most vulnerable and that the symbol was used, in double form, to mean some sick and sorid thing about sick and loosely dangerous people: and that it was a marker to say . . . what those creepy people say to each other. OR . . . was it just a harmless presentation of symbols that someone did not know also means something to some group of creeps? My guess: the person who put the iconography on the toy bear didn't know what the little symbol meant to some creepy group of criminals. I can write the story even darker, and implie that no one ever really thought that was what it was but a rival toy-bear seller alledged that those icons meant said thing having been said to mean it: and as a way to make the buyers choose a different product his own (his/her/? own) then . . . the unscruppulous vender . . . I can go on with my false story knowing it is a made up one and just a fiction. I knda know that some would misinterpret and then say that the story is as I novelize it in a sentence back. The writer is supposed to know better in an expository writing. But here, at my web page, here in the Right Column, I wax off into morning drolls of rambling on wishing I was paid to do this, knowing that it doesn't matter in some sense. Waiting for no one. No place to go. No art that I want to work on. No stories to finish. no code to review.

Some study law to learn how to skirt it. Some study composition to learn how to befuddle. Some never want to play while you are in the band. Some will intentionally change the song so you never learn it, make you think you don't know how to play at all so that they can be the hero. You shouldn't try to play in such a band with such a big-headed ego at the top of it. Band of one.

In conclusion: draft poems are needing work, but work is better done on something else. So the poem just lanquishes.

inline svg sample 1,inline svg sample 2,inline svg sample 3

Did the Sun ever really go down that night?

or did it just rest in the clouds till day break, carried along the far horizon?

🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 
🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 🌛 

Music music music music music music!

March 11, 2015


clean water, even for enemies.
if you have this attitude, you won't need this attitude.
delete your delusions.

Music of
 Christ! 

Dance to the Jam if you want to! 
🌛
    Lovers
    and
    fighters
    are often the same
    



  

Please visit my DEMOS

   Live your life
in constant resurrection!


    Fear the Lord ~ ⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰
 But He's always good to you ~ ; )
     so
 

Praise the Lord while you still have voice in the world!

I got nothing more