Dave Matthes's Blog - Posts Tagged "love"
"The Passive Aggressors" FINISHED!
The Passive Aggressors, sequel to The Slut Always Rides Shotgun has been completed in terms of editing. The first print edition should become available for sale as soon as I receive and approve the final test print.
The Passive Aggressors EBOOK Now online!
The Passive Aggressors can now be downloaded in ebook form on Goodreads and should be for sale in print form sometime within the next two weeks!
The Passive Aggressors FINALLY for sale
Well shit. The final test print would arrive in the mail TODAY of all days. Anyway...that's one less thing off my chest...The Passive Aggressors is now officially for sale at this link. Enjoy.
http://www.lulu.com/shop/david-matthe...
http://www.lulu.com/shop/david-matthe...
The Dave Matthes Book Store
Interested in buying one of my books? Click this link and give me all your money...NOW.
The Dave Matthes Book Store
The Dave Matthes Book Store
A thought.
Out of everyone I've ever had the pleasure (or displeasure, after all you can't please everyone) of sleeping with, there have been maybe...2 or 3 out of every 10 whom I could consider having at the very least felt some amount of love towards. And yes, it may have only lasted for the duration of said poon-pounding, but does that make it any less true? Does it make it any less real? How many times have you fucked any given person and silently thought to yourself: "I love you"...but when it comes time to actually say those words, how often are those words as genuine as the moment you originally conceived them? What exactly constitutes this for everyone? Because everyone is different, obviously, but obviously everyone who has yet to tap into the possibility that love is the pinnacle of emotion, be it temporary or conducive, and nothing more than a gap that is filled by the mind and NOT by the heart, everyone who has yet to consider that...what makes it any more potent for them?
Upcoming Book (Working Project) Titled: "In This House, We Lived, and We Died"
Current Literary Project in the works:
"In This House, We Lived, and We Died"
-A spiritual journey of an old man masked in doubt and material blindness turns into his last waltz, as he returns to his hometown to find it deserted and bare in a last attempt to piece together the shattered remains of his all but dissipated memory.
Dedicated to and inspired by every single one of the dozens of old, lonely men I've met at bars, parks, and everywhere else, whom I've shared hours of conversation with.
It will basically be a combination of themes and elements as well as written styles gathered from stories like "A Christmas Carol", "What Dreams May Come", "The Divine Comedy", "The Road", as well as many others.
Cover Design:
https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphoto...
For more info and more updates:
https://www.facebook.com/Theslutalway...
"In This House, We Lived, and We Died"
-A spiritual journey of an old man masked in doubt and material blindness turns into his last waltz, as he returns to his hometown to find it deserted and bare in a last attempt to piece together the shattered remains of his all but dissipated memory.
Dedicated to and inspired by every single one of the dozens of old, lonely men I've met at bars, parks, and everywhere else, whom I've shared hours of conversation with.
It will basically be a combination of themes and elements as well as written styles gathered from stories like "A Christmas Carol", "What Dreams May Come", "The Divine Comedy", "The Road", as well as many others.
Cover Design:
https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphoto...
For more info and more updates:
https://www.facebook.com/Theslutalway...
Brief Preview of the upcoming novel: "In This House, We Lived, and We Died" by Dave Matthes
(This will not be the final edit; it is only meant to relay the style in which the book will be written, and where the "story" takes place. The line of bold text is to be taken as spoken dialog. In the final edit of the book, each character's dialog will have an individual type of font and style given to their spoken words to reflect the personality of the character.)
[image error]
There had to be something in that defilement, some clue or divulgement to be reckoned with. This life couldn’t be all a strange, aimless, mystery full of lavish lust; there had to be something more, something more obvious to deshroud.
When I was a child, I would sometimes come to a vault at the top of a mound with fields and herb widespread all around in all directions. This vault was of course metaphorical and no more material than it was transparent; after all, who in their sanest of dispositions would ever place a vault on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere for everyone and anyone to find?
There was nothing actually IN this vault, so nothing could be taken out. It was simply...there, as a contingency. A “just in case” sort of thing. An exclamation point to the ceaseless paraphrase of my life.
I only went to this mound because something truly troublesome had lashed out at me, whether that something was material or not, physical or within. It was a place I could meld with; my mind, my heart, my soul, my spirit; digging my fingernails into the earth’s cool, calm soil; digging deep and rooting myself to a standstill. Absolute solidarity. Absolute absolution. It was here I didn’t have to worry about the mundane policies of life and society and the “rules” or “laws” forth-written. I was young, but even so young these things were known to me.
Only once was that solitude ever broken.
I was sitting at the top, about to go home for the night. The sun with its orange face, a ripple tearing through its chin dividing time from solstice, had begun its final descent. The encircling canopy below had darkened; its top black as tar. Here and there, far and near, there appeared swirling, staggering smoke trails leading up and out of the trees and into the heavens. I could just barely begin to smell the incineration of leaves...
The trees parted, and I saw a gaping jaw line masked in smoke and flame, and soon it became apparent that these other stacks of smoke climbing up and out of the trees, filtering through the canopy, were merely other people’s plights and terrors and superstitions, burning away at the seams. Mine was much more however, as the tread marks on the pavement faded into the clear, I knew that something far more obtrusive and much more terrifying had indeed made its way to my doorstep.
Everywhere you look there are time travelers...or at least they were at some point. They say actions speak louder than words, but it’s in our intentions where our greatest or our most terrifying art forms materialize.
I wanted to get out of this place, the pressure from all directions, the catacombs of emotion and denial all intertwining into one unavoidable guillotine just seconds away from severing mind from body. This mound, this hill, this abashed encoding abrasive and revolutionary in its intentions, corroding my palms, wearing down to my very bones so that I could not move nor dream of moving. Who would dare approve of such a reminder, such torment? Who would condone this ideology for others to suffer?
I stood at the top of this mound, longer than any such childhood memory would grant me, and found that the sun was neither rising nor falling. The trees were neither dark nor ambient. The wind was neither chilled nor promiscuous. Nothing moved. Nothing shuddered. The vault however, lying at my toes, embraced a far more haunting tune; evoking the lyrical pounding of my heart in a cunning and disquieting duet that echoed throughout the valley. For a moment, I was disgusted at the thought of something as inanimate as a vault stealing my heart’s words, but then again who really owns their heart to begin with? Is such a thing ours even from the start? From birth? Or do we make scattered and assorted payments and reparations towards it throughout our existence until the day we die in which we become its true owners?
Your handprints on the window,
Are closer than your fears.
There’s someone on the other side,
Playing with your tears...
Her voice again. From somewhere in the trees. I’d have to traverse the side of this hill and leave my vault behind if I was to pursue. And now that the thought of leaving such a place, even after growing to loathe it, became something less than axiomatic. I’m not sure I want to leave. This place, where everything including time stands still...why can’t I stay?
[image error]
There had to be something in that defilement, some clue or divulgement to be reckoned with. This life couldn’t be all a strange, aimless, mystery full of lavish lust; there had to be something more, something more obvious to deshroud.
When I was a child, I would sometimes come to a vault at the top of a mound with fields and herb widespread all around in all directions. This vault was of course metaphorical and no more material than it was transparent; after all, who in their sanest of dispositions would ever place a vault on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere for everyone and anyone to find?
There was nothing actually IN this vault, so nothing could be taken out. It was simply...there, as a contingency. A “just in case” sort of thing. An exclamation point to the ceaseless paraphrase of my life.
I only went to this mound because something truly troublesome had lashed out at me, whether that something was material or not, physical or within. It was a place I could meld with; my mind, my heart, my soul, my spirit; digging my fingernails into the earth’s cool, calm soil; digging deep and rooting myself to a standstill. Absolute solidarity. Absolute absolution. It was here I didn’t have to worry about the mundane policies of life and society and the “rules” or “laws” forth-written. I was young, but even so young these things were known to me.
Only once was that solitude ever broken.
I was sitting at the top, about to go home for the night. The sun with its orange face, a ripple tearing through its chin dividing time from solstice, had begun its final descent. The encircling canopy below had darkened; its top black as tar. Here and there, far and near, there appeared swirling, staggering smoke trails leading up and out of the trees and into the heavens. I could just barely begin to smell the incineration of leaves...
The trees parted, and I saw a gaping jaw line masked in smoke and flame, and soon it became apparent that these other stacks of smoke climbing up and out of the trees, filtering through the canopy, were merely other people’s plights and terrors and superstitions, burning away at the seams. Mine was much more however, as the tread marks on the pavement faded into the clear, I knew that something far more obtrusive and much more terrifying had indeed made its way to my doorstep.
Everywhere you look there are time travelers...or at least they were at some point. They say actions speak louder than words, but it’s in our intentions where our greatest or our most terrifying art forms materialize.
I wanted to get out of this place, the pressure from all directions, the catacombs of emotion and denial all intertwining into one unavoidable guillotine just seconds away from severing mind from body. This mound, this hill, this abashed encoding abrasive and revolutionary in its intentions, corroding my palms, wearing down to my very bones so that I could not move nor dream of moving. Who would dare approve of such a reminder, such torment? Who would condone this ideology for others to suffer?
I stood at the top of this mound, longer than any such childhood memory would grant me, and found that the sun was neither rising nor falling. The trees were neither dark nor ambient. The wind was neither chilled nor promiscuous. Nothing moved. Nothing shuddered. The vault however, lying at my toes, embraced a far more haunting tune; evoking the lyrical pounding of my heart in a cunning and disquieting duet that echoed throughout the valley. For a moment, I was disgusted at the thought of something as inanimate as a vault stealing my heart’s words, but then again who really owns their heart to begin with? Is such a thing ours even from the start? From birth? Or do we make scattered and assorted payments and reparations towards it throughout our existence until the day we die in which we become its true owners?
Your handprints on the window,
Are closer than your fears.
There’s someone on the other side,
Playing with your tears...
Her voice again. From somewhere in the trees. I’d have to traverse the side of this hill and leave my vault behind if I was to pursue. And now that the thought of leaving such a place, even after growing to loathe it, became something less than axiomatic. I’m not sure I want to leave. This place, where everything including time stands still...why can’t I stay?
Blame the Wine: An Ode of Unconventional Intentional Bullshit
Too often do we forget life's little pleasantries. Wine of course not being anything little, but perhaps overlooked. And being that I am in fact accompanied by a glass of wine, staring at one screen being this one, and the other being the open laptop in which most if not all of my literary conception takes place...I might as well write a few words about my deep and unscrupulous, and perhaps biblical love affair I've been having with....wine...
[image error]
I've just caught myself in a bit of a snafu...having started a conversation with a woman with a line exactly as follows after her wondering why we haven't talked in an indiscernible length of time: "I'd say let's be butt buddies, but I'm a virgin and afraid to lose it to a woman."
Of course I'm not a virgin, at least to some things valued as centerfolds in outlandish cultures half-across the world, like needle-dicking your neighbor's mother with a sheep-sheer, however, I find that, metaphorically perhaps, if the wine were any thicker, I'd have more shart-related bragging rights than a camel with down-syndrome. Wine truly is the juice of the Gods, and I implore everyone to acquire a hobby in which wine is a prerequisite.
And while the aforementioned is one of the few negative obscurities invoked by the juice of the Gods, it is not nearly enough to cancel out the infinitely positive POSITIVE aspects. .....
Not only does wine awaken the urge to purge a vaginal interchange with one's own testosterone-cursed trajectory, but it also gives birth to a new meaning to the word: "inspiration". All out war in the bedroom may be shortsighted and splintered if not for the promise of queef-blasted defiance, and in the respect of Judas...betray ALL expectations. Pour a glass. Forget the blank page. Summon the opposite sex. And make her one hell of a steak dinner w/ a pasta side dish. Then look them deep in their eyes, and don't say a word....(unless they're the insecure type and have no idea why the hearth is ablaze with romance-soaked flames of euphoria, in which case, get the fuck out of there before you find yourself stuck with a Stage-Potato Stalker)....don't say a word until your lips come staggeringly desperate for proximital enclosure...and THEN....pour another glass. You need to make the night last...not buckle and crumble with one single fucking kiss.
Wine can do many things whiskey cannot...for instance...THE ABOVE. At least for me. Whiskey is good for writing. Wine is good for thinking about writing and then turning to fucking the first name in your contacts list in your cell. It's clockwork. Genius clockwork.
They say life isn't fair...I say it IS fair. It's always fair. You get what you deserve...and if you fail to employ genuine romance...you GET WHAT YOU DESERVE.
Wine and dine someone today. Tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Now. Just do it with honesty. Wine never lies, and neither should you.
[image error]
I've just caught myself in a bit of a snafu...having started a conversation with a woman with a line exactly as follows after her wondering why we haven't talked in an indiscernible length of time: "I'd say let's be butt buddies, but I'm a virgin and afraid to lose it to a woman."
Of course I'm not a virgin, at least to some things valued as centerfolds in outlandish cultures half-across the world, like needle-dicking your neighbor's mother with a sheep-sheer, however, I find that, metaphorically perhaps, if the wine were any thicker, I'd have more shart-related bragging rights than a camel with down-syndrome. Wine truly is the juice of the Gods, and I implore everyone to acquire a hobby in which wine is a prerequisite.
And while the aforementioned is one of the few negative obscurities invoked by the juice of the Gods, it is not nearly enough to cancel out the infinitely positive POSITIVE aspects. .....
Not only does wine awaken the urge to purge a vaginal interchange with one's own testosterone-cursed trajectory, but it also gives birth to a new meaning to the word: "inspiration". All out war in the bedroom may be shortsighted and splintered if not for the promise of queef-blasted defiance, and in the respect of Judas...betray ALL expectations. Pour a glass. Forget the blank page. Summon the opposite sex. And make her one hell of a steak dinner w/ a pasta side dish. Then look them deep in their eyes, and don't say a word....(unless they're the insecure type and have no idea why the hearth is ablaze with romance-soaked flames of euphoria, in which case, get the fuck out of there before you find yourself stuck with a Stage-Potato Stalker)....don't say a word until your lips come staggeringly desperate for proximital enclosure...and THEN....pour another glass. You need to make the night last...not buckle and crumble with one single fucking kiss.
Wine can do many things whiskey cannot...for instance...THE ABOVE. At least for me. Whiskey is good for writing. Wine is good for thinking about writing and then turning to fucking the first name in your contacts list in your cell. It's clockwork. Genius clockwork.
They say life isn't fair...I say it IS fair. It's always fair. You get what you deserve...and if you fail to employ genuine romance...you GET WHAT YOU DESERVE.
Wine and dine someone today. Tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Now. Just do it with honesty. Wine never lies, and neither should you.
Old Poetic Nonsense
Did some scrounging and found these silly little lyrical ditties I wrote back around 2006ish...some of these will be polished up and used in the book I'm currently writing: In This House We Lived and We Died ...
I. HER
"The sun sets on another day,
yet this day is different than previous days passed.
Eyes once sheltered are now aware of the mind's true surroundings,
Nothing can change what is now that the definition of what is real is true.
Running nonstop ceases in the darkness,
curled fists relax against the wind.
Truly this is bliss, truly this is what was meant to be.
Her eyes are like a mountainscape of eternity,
the pink sun casting its gaze upon the land.
Could this be true, that after trudging through the fire,
I have found what all hearts yearn for?
Only time can tell."
II. UNSATISFIED
"Why is it that when we seek life we knock on death's door...?
Why is it that when we strive for peace it requires blood...?
Why is hypocrisy more important than truth...?
Deemed resolute we fall to our knees under pain of humility,
we cut deeper to cleanse our souls of purgury,
as ghosts we are seen clearer than the living.
Is it such a sin to forget this life and to seek out another?
If we find the door is it an act of suicide...?
Or is it an act of self-improvement?
III. IMPERATIVE
"If it were about you it would be easier,
your self-doubt is just an overused gimmick,
I've seen it all before.
But it's not about you, it's about me...
and the irreparrable damage that has been done,
only a fire hotter than the one before can put out the flames,
despite my mask, what burns couldn't be colder,
and your life can only be saved if our hands never hold again."
IV. ANOTHER KIND OF BLISS
"Oh this drunken bliss takes me to cloud nine...
Will I stumble and fall down among the imhumane...?
These twisted questions eternally hold my mind like iron twine...
Have we all forgotten our true quest...?
Or have we all become hopelessly blind.....?"
V. SUNSET
"A black clover falls from the heavens....
a rude nature awakens from within....
love is not all that can be found,
but deep hatred from the calmness down wind.
Truth cannot hold so many answers as the questions that are asked,
For the one question that should be asked that has only one answer...
we will surely never know."
VI. JUST A SUGGESTION
"A train of blood cuts through the soulless shroud,
The moonlight unveils its true color.
From the trees an owl approves,
From a distance the heart mourns.
On the shoulders of desperation,
is draped a gesture of peace.
The night indefinitely considered; a moon crowned in devious grins obliges.
Not all paths are righteous, but all causes ascertain truth."
VII. FINALLY
"Turning over loose soil never felt so good,
burrying the memories under a blanket of truth.
What was thought to have been real,
was not even a dream...but a melting nightmare.
There comes relief in knowing,
that what never was can never be and never has been.
The stars are alligned and the moon is black,
Today is tomorrow and yesterday is written anew."
VIII. TO INFINITY
"Like an orange sunrise after a night devoid of sincerity,
I see now that the thorns of a rose bush only add to its beauty.
The lone star that shines amidst the black sky proves its worth,
in a mind where love is burried beneath unbreakable stone.
Pale is the stone cast,
wide is the lake interrupted by ripples,
and the stone sinks only to join the innumerable others,
who have been utterly cast out by the same hand.
The darkness of the depths is but temporary,
as time will draw the tide away,
and all who have sunk will rise to the surface again."
IX. ULTIMATUM
"Gods and Devils fly past like flaming bullets set loose,
the arch of time is ever misconstrued by their will.
Their war will forever rage through the eyes of happy men,
therefore it is not higher we must reach,
but inward we must delve.
For the one thing that will forever remain is that
life is the amputation of serenity from our most subconscious desires."
X. GHOSTS
"You're touch can only be measured by the intensity of an earthquake,
exploding like a field of self-destructing roses.
Illustrated by the silhouette of your eyes,
help me to understand why they weap.
We find that in the words we speak,
we only differ in time spent apart.
Help me to understand why we meet only now,
help me to forget the desolation of the path i have trodden,
and i will help you remember what it feels like to wander with someone side by side."
XI. THE HEART
"Fear draws masterpieces,
coveting the aspirations of self-proclaimed heroes.
Fear awakens courage,
paving the way for those who dream of white shores and bloodless exchanges.
Fear is sold and stolen and blessed by those blind with fury, whether by conscious design or celestial influence.
Commodious as it may be, if God exists, if there is any truth to spiritual breath, it resides in the shadow of insolence;
the resilient form of fear.
And to deny fear is to deny self, and to deny self is to deny truth.
But is truth not just as trivial as fear?
Who, by rights then, decides which triumphs?
And likewise, who decides what saves the day?"
XII. THE KILLING FIELDS
"Walking through the fall of the coldest snow,
knowing full well the death that waits patiently beyond the veil;
fate is certain, but the darkness loathes those who stare back into its eyes without fear.
Therein lays the victory: whether by choice or by fleeting memories our souls will dissipate,
but by electing mockery and acceptance we live on for eternity, forever haunting the heartless…
long after the demonic angels have feasted upon our existence."
XIII. ROMANCE
"Whatever happened things like hope and trust and courage?
Have they dissipated into the unfathomable depths of oblivion…or merely relocated or redefined?
Surely with a long enough stretch of time change is inevitable…but is it justly so?
Is it we that have changed or is it the practical joke of those watching?
Where is the light in the darkness leading us? To what end do all our paths lead?
Is the veil really even there? By what mediation are we fixed upon where we cannot return to the source…or at the very least acknowledge there once was one?
Can’t we find the answer? Can there be life without death?
Where did all this come from…from what seed did this estranged and withered root emerge…and who cast that seed?
Did they know that day, that they’d indeed planted fate?
Did they know then of their invention?
I. HER
"The sun sets on another day,
yet this day is different than previous days passed.
Eyes once sheltered are now aware of the mind's true surroundings,
Nothing can change what is now that the definition of what is real is true.
Running nonstop ceases in the darkness,
curled fists relax against the wind.
Truly this is bliss, truly this is what was meant to be.
Her eyes are like a mountainscape of eternity,
the pink sun casting its gaze upon the land.
Could this be true, that after trudging through the fire,
I have found what all hearts yearn for?
Only time can tell."
II. UNSATISFIED
"Why is it that when we seek life we knock on death's door...?
Why is it that when we strive for peace it requires blood...?
Why is hypocrisy more important than truth...?
Deemed resolute we fall to our knees under pain of humility,
we cut deeper to cleanse our souls of purgury,
as ghosts we are seen clearer than the living.
Is it such a sin to forget this life and to seek out another?
If we find the door is it an act of suicide...?
Or is it an act of self-improvement?
III. IMPERATIVE
"If it were about you it would be easier,
your self-doubt is just an overused gimmick,
I've seen it all before.
But it's not about you, it's about me...
and the irreparrable damage that has been done,
only a fire hotter than the one before can put out the flames,
despite my mask, what burns couldn't be colder,
and your life can only be saved if our hands never hold again."
IV. ANOTHER KIND OF BLISS
"Oh this drunken bliss takes me to cloud nine...
Will I stumble and fall down among the imhumane...?
These twisted questions eternally hold my mind like iron twine...
Have we all forgotten our true quest...?
Or have we all become hopelessly blind.....?"
V. SUNSET
"A black clover falls from the heavens....
a rude nature awakens from within....
love is not all that can be found,
but deep hatred from the calmness down wind.
Truth cannot hold so many answers as the questions that are asked,
For the one question that should be asked that has only one answer...
we will surely never know."
VI. JUST A SUGGESTION
"A train of blood cuts through the soulless shroud,
The moonlight unveils its true color.
From the trees an owl approves,
From a distance the heart mourns.
On the shoulders of desperation,
is draped a gesture of peace.
The night indefinitely considered; a moon crowned in devious grins obliges.
Not all paths are righteous, but all causes ascertain truth."
VII. FINALLY
"Turning over loose soil never felt so good,
burrying the memories under a blanket of truth.
What was thought to have been real,
was not even a dream...but a melting nightmare.
There comes relief in knowing,
that what never was can never be and never has been.
The stars are alligned and the moon is black,
Today is tomorrow and yesterday is written anew."
VIII. TO INFINITY
"Like an orange sunrise after a night devoid of sincerity,
I see now that the thorns of a rose bush only add to its beauty.
The lone star that shines amidst the black sky proves its worth,
in a mind where love is burried beneath unbreakable stone.
Pale is the stone cast,
wide is the lake interrupted by ripples,
and the stone sinks only to join the innumerable others,
who have been utterly cast out by the same hand.
The darkness of the depths is but temporary,
as time will draw the tide away,
and all who have sunk will rise to the surface again."
IX. ULTIMATUM
"Gods and Devils fly past like flaming bullets set loose,
the arch of time is ever misconstrued by their will.
Their war will forever rage through the eyes of happy men,
therefore it is not higher we must reach,
but inward we must delve.
For the one thing that will forever remain is that
life is the amputation of serenity from our most subconscious desires."
X. GHOSTS
"You're touch can only be measured by the intensity of an earthquake,
exploding like a field of self-destructing roses.
Illustrated by the silhouette of your eyes,
help me to understand why they weap.
We find that in the words we speak,
we only differ in time spent apart.
Help me to understand why we meet only now,
help me to forget the desolation of the path i have trodden,
and i will help you remember what it feels like to wander with someone side by side."
XI. THE HEART
"Fear draws masterpieces,
coveting the aspirations of self-proclaimed heroes.
Fear awakens courage,
paving the way for those who dream of white shores and bloodless exchanges.
Fear is sold and stolen and blessed by those blind with fury, whether by conscious design or celestial influence.
Commodious as it may be, if God exists, if there is any truth to spiritual breath, it resides in the shadow of insolence;
the resilient form of fear.
And to deny fear is to deny self, and to deny self is to deny truth.
But is truth not just as trivial as fear?
Who, by rights then, decides which triumphs?
And likewise, who decides what saves the day?"
XII. THE KILLING FIELDS
"Walking through the fall of the coldest snow,
knowing full well the death that waits patiently beyond the veil;
fate is certain, but the darkness loathes those who stare back into its eyes without fear.
Therein lays the victory: whether by choice or by fleeting memories our souls will dissipate,
but by electing mockery and acceptance we live on for eternity, forever haunting the heartless…
long after the demonic angels have feasted upon our existence."
XIII. ROMANCE
"Whatever happened things like hope and trust and courage?
Have they dissipated into the unfathomable depths of oblivion…or merely relocated or redefined?
Surely with a long enough stretch of time change is inevitable…but is it justly so?
Is it we that have changed or is it the practical joke of those watching?
Where is the light in the darkness leading us? To what end do all our paths lead?
Is the veil really even there? By what mediation are we fixed upon where we cannot return to the source…or at the very least acknowledge there once was one?
Can’t we find the answer? Can there be life without death?
Where did all this come from…from what seed did this estranged and withered root emerge…and who cast that seed?
Did they know that day, that they’d indeed planted fate?
Did they know then of their invention?
James' Bedtime Story
The following is a short little story/poem written for the character "James" in my current literary project In This House We Lived and We Died...
James' Lullaby
"Once there was a little seed named Sandy who lived on a beach next to a turtle named Mandy. She knew not she was a seed, because she fell from a weed and was blown onto a beach that was dandy.
She grew up believing she was a grain of sand, which all things considered, she thought was kind of grand. Until one day it rained and her life suddenly became less bland. As the other sand rocks saw, she sprouted green frolics by law, and soon she became stuck in the land.
As time wore on and Sandy grew older, her old sandy rock friends grew less fond of her; some even grew colder. They saw what she really was, and despite Mandy's good-natured shell-top fuzz, all the sand rocks stood up and nulled her.
As chance would sometimes fame, one day a great tsunami came. The sandy rocks howled and fled and lost their poor lives and soon all fell dead. But there Sandy stood, next to Mandy as always she would, and the two of them lived forever and ever, ever without dread."
Book Trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaF1BY...
James' Lullaby
"Once there was a little seed named Sandy who lived on a beach next to a turtle named Mandy. She knew not she was a seed, because she fell from a weed and was blown onto a beach that was dandy.
She grew up believing she was a grain of sand, which all things considered, she thought was kind of grand. Until one day it rained and her life suddenly became less bland. As the other sand rocks saw, she sprouted green frolics by law, and soon she became stuck in the land.
As time wore on and Sandy grew older, her old sandy rock friends grew less fond of her; some even grew colder. They saw what she really was, and despite Mandy's good-natured shell-top fuzz, all the sand rocks stood up and nulled her.
As chance would sometimes fame, one day a great tsunami came. The sandy rocks howled and fled and lost their poor lives and soon all fell dead. But there Sandy stood, next to Mandy as always she would, and the two of them lived forever and ever, ever without dread."
Book Trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaF1BY...
Dave Matthes's Blog
- Dave Matthes's profile
- 125 followers
Dave Matthes isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
