barswanian

Enter, Exit I stand unmoving at the doors that bar the way until choice is made. Enter, Exit But which is it? Do I enter the world beyond? Or exit this one? Does soon to be take Precedence over the now? The handles hang still, cold, indifferent. Enter, Exit You can find me there, camped out with lean-to shelter, undecided. I do not reach the conclusion others have made, so unthinking quickly. Enter, Exit I could break the rules, push through uncaring, pick blindly, tempting the stoic doors into action that would end poorly for me. Enter, Exit The choice lingers; as do I.

Open Scene: Five people in a living room.  Three share a couch, two women and one man.  A fourth sits on a recliner.  The fifth sits on a desk chair.  They are in their mid-twenties, and dressed as if it is warm in the room.  A low-table is in front of the couch which carries a number of glasses and one wine bottle.  The fourth and fifth, both male, each hold a glass. Five: No no, see, now you've got me drunk. Two (Female): Yes, and so far its disappointing.  You're supposed to be entertaining. One (Female): You could dance! Three (Male): Its good booze even. Five: (M

What is love? One can love a sister, a brother, a mother, a father, grand's of the two latters, uncles and aunts, cousins and friends, strangers, pets, the sunlight on a warm evening reflecting through a prism held by fishing line which is itself stuck to a little suction cup against a dusty window. One can love food from cake to broccoli to fried fish to those tiny individual candy bars that are never enough but give just a taste of chocolate before "pop" in goes the second one. One is able to love the feeling of carpet between toes or the tension in a hammock's string when lying in that 'u' position swinging delightfully with e

branches doubly thick in white tops and dark bark Here one ends, no here begins the frozen bits of the winter dressing gown. Why does the tree always hide its size, in all weather but sun-baked winter? What conspiracy hides the words written in a language spoken in month long moments; hides the skeleton in mist, spring growth, summer foliage autumn's fall, wind's dance and winter's covering? Why have we words to describe the workings of inner bits of atoms not one in a million will ever see? Yet to describe the age long webwork of branches, budded, added, reaching? reaching for what goal but life, we say, for the sun

--Booooing-- Because too much of this difficult thing --Splat-- called life, can sour the perception --gazebo?-- of what we're looking at. --Grog-- It's the unexpected moment of grace within the boundaries of constant, continuous, contrived --gloopy-- and consuming existance, that can salvage our motivation, our goodwill and our hearts. --Spa-tang-- I've chosen ridiculous words because I cannot write down the way a cello played sweetly within an orchestra moves me to compassion. Life is the difficult, the malicious, the overpowering thing we see it as. But it is also the moment of a fading leaf in warm sunshine,