writing
What We Love Is What We Hope Is Who We Are
The thing I remember most about being young is the longing I felt, though I knew not for what.
Eric Jennings
he/him, dilettante, writer, invocateur, noise-maker, accidental yogi and dabbler in patamysticism which is the spiritual branch of pataphysics
writing
My Vertical Interrogation
I believe I am the figment of a little boy’s imagination. He’s trying to imagine himself in the future. In a different future than the one he expects. I am ten years old imaging I am sixty-three.
blog
A Bad Fall, and a Return
Most of this year has not been good. My mental health was the poorest it's been in a very long time. My physical health has somewhat returned, but as I turn 65, I feel fragile and old.
writing
M.A.L.ediction of My Offense, Many of Whom are Entering Us
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens, by millions and millions more subpoenas, to wash it white as snow?
writing
eagles toppling mountain goats
he came up on an eagle on a sandbar looking over his shoulder bloody beak dripping with dead cormorant...
writing
We Begin
that was how it started, this is how it started, that death, this death, two points, on an imaginary line, only one point, on a circle, a clock...
writing
The Custom of Violence
In the earliest grades he was a bit of a bully. If his family hadn’t moved he likely would have continued on a trajectory towards becoming a very bad person. However, and somehow, the move to another state affected him in such a manner that he effectively began learning how to be a human being.
writing
The Saddest Piss in the World
i’m standing in a dark closet dreaming / dreaming like a monkey / what a monkey sounds like / what a monkey sounds like when it stubs it’s toe
writing
Queequeg, Cleopatra, and Xerxes Walk Into a Bar
We were poor. Number 10-sized cans of mealy, sinewy, chicken guts, peanut butter, and powdered eggs. Embarrassing standing in line to pick it all up.
writing
At the Enduro
Most people think they know what makes a haiku, and most of them are wrong.
writing
Does It Matter if You Touch the Ashes? I Did Not Touch the Ashes
i took my dead mother for a walk last week at Land’s End, by chance i was just looking for easy access water to dump her in to dissolve her, i guess was the intention i didn’t give it that much thought
writing
Adagio
A MAN crosses towards the table from UP STAGE RIGHT. He is wearing underwear under a long, flowing silk bathrobe, open at the front. He stops to the RIGHT of the table. He takes a flower in his right hand, smells it, brushes his face with it, then drops it on the floor to his left.