Quoted in the Grove:
I could spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane. These people are honest to a fault, and their naivety has no peer but my own.
~Andre Breton
Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.
~Charles Bukowski
Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.
~Carl Jung
EndQuote:
The creative person is both more primitive and more cultivated, more destructive and more constructive, a lot madder and a lot saner, than the average person.
~Frank Baron
~
Posted from the Grove:
A good rule-of-thumb: Give a creative free rein, then back away to see what emerges. It may well be that the simple earthiness of Wordgrove’s forest setting will be eclipsed by the opulent vision brought to wharf life by Piffin and Greymane. Stalwarts of Wordgrove’s writing circle, they have done what all true creatives do eventually, create a device stamped with their identity, a work that they can call their own. They have done so, and magnificently. It is called … Faefyre.
The buildings of Faefyre circle a long crescent wharf off Motu Motu. The principals have also staked out a campground / playground on the beach. A stroll thru the libraries, galleries and seaside abodes can be an afternoon well-spent, Time spent here will give the visitor reasons to return for more. Each structure is as different and distinct in identity as a museum, library, gambling den, art mart and fun market can make it.
The delay in the unveiling of Faefyre can be attributed to a faultless desire to get it right. Now it can be said, it was worth the wait. To see for yourself, and to witness creative instinct artfully at play, visit Faefyre (click below). All this place lacks is pizza by the slice, and real life beer.
Faefyre Wharf: Click while in There, or copy/paste into a Document link
https://webapps.prod.there.com/goto/goto?obj=13403159
~
Prewritten for Thurs (08/27) @6pm PT/9 ET is: He could almost reach it, but the buzzing was getting louder…
~~
@Writers Platform
Glass Table:
~Piffin:
“While The Slaves Can Still Row”
I’m losing my composure
My ability to stand
Sliding on blue velvet
With a drink in either hand
The journey’s been a fun one
Though not quite what I had planned
Let’s dance while the slaves can still row
I grew up dodging scripture
Like a lion tamer’s chair
A sentimental picture
Of my finger in the air
Theology is boring
And it clashes with my hair
Let’s dance while the slaves can still row
I’ve always walked the hard road
But I’ve walked the walk with ease
If you think you’ve seen legs before
Son, take a look at these
A seven is a ten
In a room full of threes
Let’s dance while the slaves can still row
It’s frightening what a body does
When looking for one’s kicks
It isn’t always broken
But it still could use a fix
Vacation is for tourists
Me, I’m yachting down the Styx
Let’s dance while the slaves can still row
Hermes took our tickets
And he gave us all the biz
A passage fastly waterlogged
With brine and Sloe Gin Fizz
I’d like to sound profounder
But I’m neck-deep as it is
Let’s dance while the slaves can still row
So jettison these trophies
Girls, we’re going down fast
These ribbons and these accolades
For coming in last
By the time I get to Phoenix
I’ll be climbing up the mast
Let’s dance while the slaves can still row
If you’ve a valediction, sister,
Spit it out quick
Then let’s dance
While the slaves can still row
~
Prewritten: He woke to the smell of cookies baking …
~MissMerry: Prewritten by MM
He woke to the smell of cookies baking… or so he thought for the first few fuzzy moments as he slowly regained consciousness.
“What the…”
Something crunched. The pillowcase felt like sandpaper on his forehead. He sat bolt upright, realizing the Doubletree “pillow cookie” was smooshed into the side of his face, chocolate chips were smeared across the pristine white sheets like one of his 3 year-old son Donnie’s finger paintings.
His son brought them home from pre-school about once a week. His ex always smoothed the crinkles inflicted on the masterpiece on its way home, then firmly attached it in the place of honor on the front of the refrigerator. His little Rembrandt always came running full speed at him each Saturday afternoon when Daddy came to pick him up saying “Come SEE, Come SEEE Daddy, I painted you a PITCHER!”
The room spun a little as he reached for a water bottle he had (thank God!) left on the bedside table the evening before. Eyeing the cookie bits, he picked one quarter-sized fragment and popped it into his mouth, enjoying the crunchy crumbs scraping the film off his teeth, and the chocolatey flavor that did a little bit to dispel the nasty taste of stale beer.
Crunching, he noted that this was likely the best cookie he had tasted since he and his ex had split. Or maybe it just tasted really good while his mouth tasted so bad… either way, it made him miss her.
He looked at the bedside clock. Two hours before he had to catch the shuttle to the airport. He was glad his sales convention was over. You can only talk about life insurance for so long before the bar really calls. And it did, wow… it really did.
He thought through his itinerary for the day. Time for a shower and shave, some breakfast (non-chocolate chipped). Then he would catch the shuttle to the airport and fly … home. Home… what a joke. You work hard all week looking forward to the weekend…and to see them.
He picked up another chunk of cookie, thought to himself, “What was it we were arguing about that started the breakup anyway?” He shook his head. He could not remember a time when he had not loved her. They were best friends in middle school, dated in high school, pen pals while he was in Iraq, then married as soon as they could when he came home.
They had handled so many obstacles in thier lives, only to fall apart under small, nitpicky crap that, NOW, he realized was not important.
“All pride, damn, stupid have to have it all my own way stupid PRIDE” BAM! – He smacked the bedside table hard enough to bruise his palm.
“Damn damn damn damn.” He muttered as he made his way to the shower, rubbing his injured hand. His mind stayed stuck on Her…them.
He had made a big show of “living large” after the separation by being too loud, drinking too much, and hanging out with his other divorced male buddies. He thought to himself that his life was so damn much fun now – he stared into his own bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror – it seemed like it was surely killing him.
Freshly shaved and showered, he pulled shorts and a golf shirt on and walked to the lobby for a coffee and Danish from the continental breakfast bar, taking it all back to his room with him. After water and coffee he was feeling more himself, the alcohol cobwebs gradually lifted from his mind like mist from his Daddy’s stock pond on a cold morning.
Putting his few belongings in his carry-on bag, he tried ineffectually to remove the chocolate abstract from the pillowcase, but the more he swept crumbs, the more he thought about home. Real home. Where he belonged. The cell phone on the table beeped at him, a message missed while he was getting coffee.
“Yeah Hi, sorry I missed your call…. Yes, I will be there this afternoon. I fly in from Atlanta at noon, I’ll see y’all at around one. Oh, and Hon, do you have time that maybe we could talk?”
He cleared his throat. “I miss you. I will see you soon.”
At the airport he smiled as he steadied his resolve. Taking a few extra minutes to shop on the concourse, he grinned and felt… hope? For the first time in a while things felt right.
He made his way to where his car was parked and loaded his bag in the trunk. As he paid the garage fee and headed out toward 285 he smiled and looked at the box on the seat beside him. Inside were a dozen fresh-baked jumbo chocolate chip cookies, each decorated with a big red icing heart.
SHE baked great cookies, but this batch was on HIM.
He was on his way home.
~
~Greymane:
“The Broken Pieces”
Along the edge of reason on the way to find a clue
They declared it open season on whatever I pursue
Searching for some answers to the questions I don’t know
I stumbled in the darkness where the broken pieces go
The dusty things that silence brings are right above the ledge
I fell uphill in time to push the wisest off the edge
I scared the injured years forever pounding on the shore
But tempted by the light of day to sleep a little more
Awakened by the smell of cookies baking in the rain
They danced a little more each time her wisdom mentioned pain
When Tuesday came they laughed at me and put me on display
Connected by a string or two I slowly fade away
I wrapped a separate shadow on each dream as they expire
The cauldron bubbles louder if you toss them on the fire
Guilt beyond each promise that won’t listen when you scream
I spent another lifetime in the echo of a dream
A Harmony of broken glass that calls each by their name
Has spun a foggy tapestry that legends set to flame
The terror in my darkest cell had sculpted every soul
I held my sorrow to my lips and sipped it through the hole
~
~Piffin:
Pfeffernusse by Piffin
He woke to the smell of baking cookies.
The air was rich with the scents of molasses and nutmeg, ginger and cinnamon.
He smiled as he sat up. Today was a good day.
He could hear Mathilde singing below, as she busied herself in the kitchen. Her singing never failed to remind him of their youth: meeting in secret behind the old bell tower; running, hand in hand, through the fields west of the town to escape the disapproving eyes of her parents, he being the son of a lowly cobbler.
Rising from bed, he stretched, then walked to the window to look out on a perfect spring morning. The yard was alive with blossoms. Color. Life. The promise of a grand future.
Over the stone wall which surrounded the yard, he saw the camp with its fences and towers, its endless rows of barrack housing. Beyond, stood the smoke stacks, tirelessly billowing black into the morning air.
Somewhere in the house there arose the clamber of children; Rolph and Adeline playing. His children. The future.
Again, he smiled.
Anise and cloves wafted up from the kitchen, almost covering the odor from the chimneys. Noting the lateness of the hour, he hurriedly dressed himself and stepped into his boots.
Walking to the mirror, Obersturmbannfuhrer Rudolf Hess placed his cap on his head, just so, and regarded his smart uniform. His father, had he survived the Somme, would have been proud.
A final adjustment of the medals on his chest and he made his way downstairs.
Cookies.
Today was a good day indeed.
~
~BarTalk: On waking…
~
Impromptu: grenade, hoodwink, ferment
~MissMerry: haiku
Feelings roil, ferment.
My heart juggles with grenades.
In love? Or hoodwinked…
~
~Greymane:
Friday night
He fell on her grenade again but did it out of spite
She pulled the pin and tossed it like she does each Friday night
Confetti splashing crimson in the shadow of the sun
He paints devotion quietly in front of everyone
Outside the crowd is thinning from the weight of what they know
singing snowy corner harmony in barrel fire glow
The harvest lies fermenting, rotting silent on the vine
I led her home beneath the moon too distant to be mine
From out of touch I wander in too tired to be here
I traded time too quickly for a hoodwink and a beer
I strapped myself to trusted friends and followed where they led
They left me stranded miles from the silence of my head
~
~Piffin:
“104.3”
It ain’t no ballpark
It ain’t no horseshoe
It ain’t no kinda sorta maybe deal
My love for you
It ain’t no iffy itchy phase
My broken mind’s going through
Just leave the damn radio on
I don’t have love songs
Impassioned lullabies
All the melodies my mouth makes
Sound like battle cries
Though there’s a tune to the turmoil
When I look in your eyes
But leave the damn radio on
You make my stars fall
You make my moon shine
You pull the pin on this hand grenade
Heart of mine
And I get scared you might hear the shivers
Running up my spine
So leave the damn radio on
And we’ll go driving
Until we can’t think
And let the night ferment this romance
Like a stiff drink
I’ll start your engines
With a carjack and a hoodwink
And we’ll leave the damn radio on
Well leave the damn radio on
~
~TommyO:
Grenades
Wayne could ignore the kid in the back of class no longer, “Yes, Alex” You have a question?” Alex was one of those lost boys you hear so much about. His hormones were stuck in 3rd grade while the rest of him was a junior in High School. You just knew he was the subject of every prank and the punch line of every joke told in P. E. It sucked being Alex … everyone knew it, except of course Alex. He was blissfully unaware of his station in life. Life didn’t hand Alex lemons, it hurled them at him with skull crushing velocity.
“Mr. Shomter, I understand how ‘coupling’ works … in theory …” The room silently exploded with twittering’s and snickers. This was Sex Ed class for junior boys. The curriculum and the school board were very precise about the terminology he could use. Intercourse was coupling. Genitalia was private parts, babies were consequences, and so on.
Here he was a teacher of facts, of science, of lofty ideals and irrefutable truths of the universe, yet the school board thought it best to hoodwink these young minds with politically correct terms that meant nothing, conveyed nothing, taught nothing. Ignorance was a grenade that would inevitably explode in these young men’s lives and he stood there powerless to stop it because of contract he signed not to deviate from the program. He raised his hand to silence the room and nodded to Alex to continue.
“So coupling…is bad and to be avoided, else you’ll have to deal with the consequences. I get it.” From the back of the room, some wiseacre shouted out “You’ll never get it Alex, until your voice drops.” That sent the entire classroom bursting out in laughter with only Alex standing blushing burgundy red up to his hair line in the vortex of ridicule.
Shomter shouted at the top of his lungs to “shut the F up!” and they did.
“Sit down Alex. It’s alright.” It took Shomter a minute to calm himself down and he dare not speak until he was back in control. “My apologies Alex, Boys. Hell, you’re not boys. In other times, other places you’d all be responsible adults. Toiling to feed your family, to put scraps of bread on the table. Here you are obsessing over which app to use when across the planet from where you sit today men even younger than you are fighting for lives, for freedom, for the end of oppression and slavery. Do you realize that the crap I’ve been feeding you today is useless?” He knew that his words would ferment his firing, but that was preferable than deceiving these men one instant longer.
“Coupling, Alex, is not something to be avoided. Doing it in ignorance is. Babies are not consequences, there wonderful, human beings in the making and should be loved and nurtured and exposed to the delights of this world as well as protected and kept safe. Hiding or obscuring truth is not protection or safety. It’s wrong. So everyone, put your “21st Century Relationships” book in the drawer. It’s crap, and should only be used to start a fire or wipe your ass.”
Shomter was sure he had everyone’s attention. He continued. “It doesn’t matter who you love, when you love them, how you love them. Just love them. Ignore social media, porn sites. Ignore anyone who wants you to proscribe to their way of thinking. It works for them, it may work for you, but don’t count on it. Be yourself. Think for yourself, and above all else, feel for yourself. Everything else is just details.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room. Everyone knew today’s lesson was very very different and perhaps never repeated. From the back of the room Alex’s hand shot up with another question. Within half a second every other hand shot up as well.
~
~Odin: untitled
To defeat a smart foe will require cunning;
always try to get them running.
Wear them out BEFORE the fight,
then cull the herd with all your might.
If the enemy is stronger then you,
hoodwink them; leave them without a clue.
Ferment discontent in the enemy ranks,
then take conquered plunder back to your banks.
When attacking many at once can be done,
a grenade into the fray can make a battle won.
~
~BarTalk: Hangover
~ . ~
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