Quoted in the Grove:
Humor is what happens when we’re told the truth quicker and more directly than we’re used to.
~George Saunders
Humor is a rubber sword – it allows you to make a point without drawing blood.
~Mary Hirsch
Jokes of the proper kind, properly told, can do more to enlighten questions of politics, philosophy, and literature than any number of dull arguments.
~Isaac Asimov
EndQuote:
Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator; but among those whom I love, I can: all of them can make me laugh.
~WH Auden
~~
Posted from the Grove:
Nothing quite excites a writer like finding new ways to view the world he writes about. It may be possible to do this simply by writing from a different place with unfamiliar or even exotic surroundings.
Writers Platform @Wordgrove has been the weekly meeting place for Word Games since There’s reopening. The grove is comfortably familiar and everyone knows where to meet. In short, our groove has become a rut. Piffin and Greymane’s striking new venture @Faefyre Wharf provides an excellent opportunity to test surroundings as a variable on the writer’s palette of color. This coming week’s Word Game (09.03) will be held @Faefyre Fish Market.
Click the below link to land Wharf-side, then look on the left for the only stone building on a wharf populated by clapboard shanties.
https://webapps.prod.there.com/goto/goto?obj=13403159
~
14 Cool Psychology Tricks You Need to Try:
http://www.reallyinterweb.com/article-240-14-cool-try.html
~
Prewritten for Thurs (08/20) @6pm PT/9 ET is: intrusion, canvas
~~
@Writers Platform:
Prewritten: intrusion, canvas
~Piffin:
Everything by Piffin
She was sitting on his heart. The one he had left on the wood slat of the schoolyard bench last summer. The one he did not have the nerve to carve her initials into.
He had left it empty, his heart; jagged and hurriedly scratched into weathered wood and peeling green paint.
She was sitting on it.
Anita Pirelli.
She was sitting with him.
He had been in love with her since kindergarten; since the first time he had seen her, standing just outside the playhouse where the other girls romped and giggled, like she was above it all.
Captivated had he been, in the world-encompassing way of a five-year old, by her black hair and her brown eyes. Her shy, dimpled smile. Those eyes.
He had watched her from afar for nine years. Watched as she blossomed into the head cheerleader, the class president, a young woman.
He thought Stacy O’Connor had been lying to him when she had reported that Anita liked him, that she thought he was cute. She liked him because he was shy, quiet, unlike the other boys who spent their time trying to impress her with pushups and how quickly they could drink a can of beer.
He had been wary when he agreed to come to the schoolyard that Friday night, convinced it was nothing more than a hoax, a setup, a ploy to make him look foolish.
But she was here, sitting on the bench with the heart, away from the other boys and girls with their beer and their radio and their raucous laughter. Above it all.
She was sitting with him.
He saw the bee from the corner of his eye, by the fence.
He realized, then, that Anita had moved closer to him.
She had a look in her eyes; a look that told him she was looking at nothing but him.
His heart pick up its pace in his chest, as though he were running. He couldn’t move a muscle.
Those eyes.
He heard the bee now, buzzing, loud and angry, somewhere behind him.
He pictured his EpiPen where he had left it on the kitchen counter at home, forgotten in his rush to meet up with the other kids at the schoolyard, his desire to see Anita.
She licked her lips…wet, perfect…and she smiled at him. Her eyes glistened with gems captured from the streetlamps kicking to life just outside the schoolyard. Her olive skin glowed warmly in pink light cast by sunset clouds. Her black hair moved gently in the warm, summer breeze.
She sat beside him: everything he had ever dreamed of; everything he had ever wanted.
Everything in those eyes.
Anita Pirelli.
Love.
Everything.
He could almost reach it, but the buzzing was growing louder.
~
~BarTalk: The Good Life Door
~
Impromptu: dichotomy, dictate
~Greymane:
In Fused
They made me climb the tallest tree to look for distant parts of me
Reality and pain agreed to dictate my dichotomy
I rode the veil dreams surround
The rest of me beneath the ground
A damaged dark duality
The furthest light I barely see
No further than my empty room
Empty like a sonic boom
Silent but in shades of grey
Walking home a different way
It’s clear
~
~Piffin:
“Tapir”
Dichotomy
Lobotomy
Dictation
Post autotomy
Take this
Take this
Take this down
These words make up a lot ‘o’ me
Tapir
Tapir
Tapir…what??
Tape ‘er down for sodomy
Spiritual necrotomy
Psychiatry can suck
~
~MissMerry: untitled
Living life in “There” and existing “Here”,
real life’s so drab and plain.
The dichotomy of imagination
versus the urbane.
Responsible, mature life dictates
I walk a razor edge…
Pay the bills and take my pills
– but stay off the window ledge.
Thankfullly, there’s time for Me
I love to get away.
When not cooking or working
or caring for Them
I escape to “There” and PLAY!!
~
~BarTalk: then and now
~.~
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