the writing of fiction 1

I admire early 20th century literature and its recognization and respect of form in the face of change. It was an exciting time. Edith Wharton's concisely verbose opinion on the form of "current literature" is my link to the (c)literati of the time; her words are always carefully calculated equations that are aware of their derivation from respectfully noted predecessors. Which is a really long way of saying that she says the shit she means for real real and knows she owes her evolution of vision to the dead and ancient and
the recently dead.

winter reminiscing

i often speak of stretching long across the marble floors, stretching like the days habitually do across the Equator. the days are much longer at home.

note 1

i was the second child born to wilhemina brown before the New Year's celebration for the coming of 1918. i fell into the scene, the diminished counterpart in a shuffle note, an unexpected second beat that rang out...

i joined the brother, born minutes earlier.
i remember he writhed furiously in the novel atmosphere.

THE WINDOW.
the snow beat its indecisive gravimetric rhythm this windy wintery New Year's.
the snow made monolithic formations with no indication of dimension or depth on New Year's, the day that I was born.

I remember two days from 1988, when I was two years old. These days are my 2nd birthday and the first day I was brought to a place known as a 'nursery'. I asked if there were going to be plants there in the latter situation and my mother said no this is a different sort of nursery than the ones we read about in the encyclopedia. This kind of nursery grows children instead of plants.

And thus sprouted the image of children growing in rows of pots in a warehouse environment.

real-time romanticism

in stead of the newtonian flow of poetry came a conga line of chunky girls
dancing in fluorescent shirts, dolphin watermarks
and they came tumbling into the tub.

her face was a practice of unimpressed expression.

i'm a comic book panel, the one where they go "zap! pow!" fists a-flying. flip it to see option #2.

Rudder picked himself off the floor, where he had remained inert for the past 2 hours. He liked to listen to the soothing whine of the dentist's machinations below the apartment.