~LordofCookies

David

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About Me Member Pseudo-Intellectual LordofCookies22/Male/Canada

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Hero and Heroine

I remember days that never happened. I remember days when we walked in orchards in the winter, watching snow fall onto the trees, and covering your hair with tiny white flowers. I remember days in the kitchen, when I’d make dinner for the two of us with you sitting on the counter, watching me chop the garlic and stirring whatever I was cooking. I remember nights when we’d turn off the lights and listen to the music in each other’s breathing. I remember nights when we’d dance to that music. I remember days sitting by the side of the Hellespont, talking about everything we could think of, without a second to catch our breath

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ApologyIn darkness, I once heard a distant voice And it was stark inside the opaque night, A visible thing; it reflected light And so, I followed it and made my choice.
I tried to find the voice and hear its words Because, in them, I heard myself echoed, Reflected in a mirror. To me, it showed That I was understood in what I heard.
But what I should have realized and known Was that this voice was not a distant mirror, And it was not my own thoughts I should hear, But words and poetry that were its own.
I’m sorry. If you could, please forgive me. I Apology
by ~LordofCookies

Who Weeps for DFW?Who Weeps for David Foster Wallace?

Yesterday, I tried to put my thoughts on a wall in the street with tiny specks of red paint. I tried to form them into a coherent line instead of just a random, jumbled mess of red. I’d seen other people do it—they managed to create beauty out of paint and brick—and so I wanted to. But it wasn’t really working. In the end it was just red paint on a wall. Just another inane mess and every other wall on the street looks exactly the same.
A man passed me by and asked me how I did it, looking up in wonder at how I’d managed to get my paint on the Who Weeps for DFW?
by ~LordofCookies

On Love PoetryUmberto Eco once wrote something I find particularly infuriating:
I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows he cannot say to her, “I love you madly”, because he knows that she knows (and that she knows that he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say, “As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly.” At this point, having avoided false innocence, having said clearly that it is no longer possible to speak innocently, he will nevertheless have said what he wanted to say to the On Love Poetry
by ~LordofCookies

What Love Looks LikeI wanted to write something for you. I wanted it to be a sprawling epic...blocks of text running up and down the page full of passionate words and metaphors describing a perfect feeling. But I’m out of words. Somehow they just seem to have run out after a few sentences and I’m left staring at this near-empty piece of paper. I had words once. Maybe I still have them but I’ve lost the thickening agent that holds them together. So I just keep moving the pen. No words are coming out, only lines in randomness. Moving the pen so fast that it tears up the paper in places.
But I wanted you to know that those lines that I m What Love Looks Like
by ~LordofCookies

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Title

Sun Dec 30, 2007, 11:05 PM

Okay, because I don't have anywhere else to put this, I'm just placing this here, because I don't think I'll be writing any actual journal entries.

Hi. This is my gallery. This is more of a public scrap journal than anything. I don't think I'm going to use it for complete pieces, though I might surprise myself. Random experiments, poetic thoughts, word play, or anything else I find interesting.

I might just disappear after a while too. Other stuff I've tried along these lines has passed away too. It isn't lack of interest, but I don't think I have the ego to deal with the pressure to continually try to say something interesting or clever. I like my clever thoughts to come out of nowhere, for the most part.

Also, I don't really like public commenting on other people's stuff, or even responding to comments on mine, unless it has a point I want to discuss. I'm grateful for compliments, though.

~David

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