Will post more soon

The failings of a writer can be summed into one where, in words, it is essentially the failure of thought. He must be able to at once perceive and conceive, to take and to give, before the sands of time cover the thought indefinitely, the thought that is reality remarked. He must be able to tally on both sides of the line the casualties between warring man and nature, whether his nature or what we have come to know as nature, the mountain, the alpenglow, the brook, and the stone. It is here, between life and himself, he must risk his time for a spirit more indifferent to him than anything else. For this is the spirit of hope that could in times of crisis construct from within the hearts of those disoriented a bond to build from as if constructing a bridge from generation to generation, island to island in which looking back from the midst of the past always looks, always until the satisfaction known as an ending, dangerously too close and the future an Eden so far and yet needed, so to finally drop one’s pale, to stammer alas into the ground one’s tired tools and slake the shaking of men’s knees. These are the difficulties of the writer who has no help if his aim is to lift his people by way of showing what each is capable of producing by himself, and that if each one could lift themselves up then the mirror of their magic would instantly lift one another up through inspiration or imitation or even pride as if an invisible hand were throwing a light switch on the stars. He will not have help in picking his subject, his phrasing, timing, or why such a word as “won’t” works. He will not have the help of even himself, or at least not the help popular at banquets, such as in “Please, help yourself!” He is alone, and that is his necessary solitude, the solitude of painful pride. The only help he will have will be of his own invention, the aid of Frankenstein, or the future. If he cannot give the store of his heart through the pen then nobody else will be able to find it. And he will be broke. The floor will be but a subsuming ashtray for his mind where the carcinogens of his addiction tar up and swell him in his writing pension, his fifteen minute break broken into hours a day, day by day. He can call, yes, but what will echo will be the intrusion of marauders in the dead of night. To combat this disease of chaos he must have a patient martial arts.

Oh, and the garage sale went horribly. The day's wind calumned the charm of such a little sale. Sigh. 

Also I will be posting a lot of poetry on my other blog soon once I have some time for myself to do so. When the time comes I will report.

 And what do you think of this quote? "A noble man compares and estimates himself by an idea which is higher than himself; and a mean man, by one lower than himself. The one produces aspiration; the other ambition, which si the way in which a vulgar man aspires." It's by Henry Ward Beecher, brother of the author who wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin. I think it's degrading of the aspiring man who ambitions as a realist in plain, honest terms.

And we just missed him.