Scorched earth policy

y please.

…and repeat. you have made punc­tu­ation as poetry once more.

Mod­ern life is rub­bish. Right?

Bleh. This seemed clumsy some­how. There were snips of inter­est­ing imagery and word­age. Des­pite the unique use of punc­tu­ation (as noted above) it seemed a little too fab­ric­ated and not quite a tight enough fit. I can’t bet­ter define what I mean, I’m afraid. It was inter­est­ing, but without the usual impact here.

Are you sure you’re alright??
Sounds a bit, well, manic, to me.
Best take a pill, wipe the slate clean and start again Y.

‘Begin again? Restart? Reboot? Abort, retry, fail? Y/N.’

The key thing here for me is, to recog­nise the small suc­cesses. Never ques­tion whether to reboot.

A Cloudy Sky, brings needed refresh­ment. A Forest Fire, clears the land ready for regrowth. And within any Loss, there is always some­thing to be gained.

The Sea­sons may might be less well defined, but they exist, right up to the time, they do not.

Whoops. Where did ‘May’ come from?

i can´t listen through this les­son today there mas­ter i´m just off out to the jacks for a smoke, no, no bother, i´ll see myself out.

I really like the rhythm and the way the piece seems to develop through word asso­ci­ation. It also makes me think of Bos­nia and gen­o­cides and want­ing it to stop. I won­der what the author inten­ded — and whether that even matters…

This was hard to read, which I think was an inten­ded effect (I hope). You are a mas­ter of word play.

Wait he was say­ing some­thing inter­est­ing.
We don’t have time, fast foward to at least 20.
He’s still goin­gon about that, lets go to 30.
huh? I don’t under­stand that at all.
Fine then lets go back to the begin­ning.
Theres no time, we have to come to a decision in 15.
He says he’s inno­cent.
as do they all, fast­for­ward, will you
ok we’ve seen enough I still have to fill forms.
But we haven’t seen any­thing.
they both turn to face me, don’t lag behind.

As illus­trated by pre­vi­ous com­ments, whether you love it or can barely stand read­ing it this piece makes you think, ques­tion, examine.

It is evoc­at­ive, ima­gin­at­ive, pas­sion­ate, play­ful, exper­i­mental, intu­it­ive, and beautifully-rewardingly dif­fi­cult; it is open to inter­pret­a­tion and imbued with mean­ing. It’s got a sin­gu­lar voice and, most of all, it’s what every writer aspires to be: abso­lutely fearless.

Applause for Ani’s comment!

I do not want to know what this cur­rent post is about. One should never ask an artist what his paint­ing is about.

What I do want to know is whatever happened to that moth you once wrote about?

Do you remem­ber, little moth, banging his head against the window.

I often think of him.

Ask­ing an artist what her paint­ing is about is merely an aside that might throw some inter­est­ing light. The artist will always be more inter­ested to know what you think it’s about any­way — and will smile wanly when you tell her, all the while think­ing about what’s for din­ner, or how soon she can go to bed.

Per­fect imperfection?

I still hear. Here. Yes, yes hear­ing. Yes see­ing. Not believing.

As I read your words I often try to think myself into your mind. Not so much to think what you think, but to know what thoughts go through your head after you have writ­ten some­thing like this. Some­thing so shock­ingly beau­ti­ful. Shock­ing and beautiful.

This piece in par­tic­u­lar is like all thoughts to all people.

Thanks, every­one, for such thought­ful responses, whether you liked it, hated it, or didn’t have the slight­est idea on earth what this utter claptrap was about. Rightly or wrongly, for me part of the — enjoy­ment isn’t the right word — adven­ture of writ­ing some­thing like this is read­ing the ideas and inter­pret­a­tions you bring to the party.

P.S. For moth fans, the moth is dead. That’s how it ended. Long live the moth. May it flut­ter in peace, some­where in eternity.

Con­cern­ing your “leave a Com­ment” descrip­tion, I regret everything in the morn­ing anyway.

And if you are so con­cerned, might it not be more cour­teous for you to make avail­able the trash-can option in which we your loyal fans might wake up at 3:00 a.m. when we decide, that we can’t bare to be asso­ci­ated with the notes we have left you and must at once rec­tify the situ­ation by a flick of the mouse.

And do you even won­der about the poor com­mit­ment phobes end­lessly hov­er­ing over the “post” but­ton without the cour­age to stab it because it leaves us, um them, with no recourse once posted?