So, I forgot my object at home…… It was an old light that I replaced on the outside of my house. It was weathered, sort of dirty, and very old. I wanted to use it with this poem that I had written because I believe it to have a lot of meaning towards the thought I wanted you to inquire through reading this. I promise it makes sense to me. Thank you.
A recently brought up idea had a strike on the mind Seeing the light through the dark and the dark through the light Possibilities whirl-winded Sweeping at the feet Chances to fly and escape at a time in reality it really could not take. “Live” said the deemed of righteousness ‘Do not feel as though you have escaped You will never come back Only to save those who have strayed.’ Rebellion lives in the veins that puzzle through the underlying madness and serenity that shows proof. With one third madness One third serenity That one last third leaves room for a mystery. Nevertheless does the royalty strive To be the worst of the best when it’s time for flight. Endless encounters from valleys to peaks With the one whose veins run black with technique. She reaches and wins with the temptations she shows But a minute too soon the windows sealed closed. Trapped the once escaped in a room of pitched darkness Only the light of soul outshines the mystery Revealing the ‘live’ factor that could’ve been protested The madness and serenity compile at once Only to fleet the obscene vengeance Roaring expectations flood the breeze As the striked idea comes with more ease. ‘Live’ repeats the righteous As the thought rattles on Continuing with the light right on time Technique dwindles as she decides to move on. -Noelle Evans
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“Isn’t it odd?”
“What?” “What do you mean what?” “Oh nevermind, you were just thinking out loud again.” “Oh… I guess I was. My apologies.” “No need to apologize. Sorry for interrupting your train of thought. Please do carry on.” “Well now there’s surely no need for you to apologize. I’m the one muttering nonsense to myself over here while you are trying to study.” “Can’t argue with that, but no need to fret my dear. I’ve grown quite fond of your... how did you say it… nonsense and muttering.” “I guess that is some consolation.” “What, that I’m fond of your pondering?” “I guess…” “You guess?” “Yes, I guess so.” “Well here you go again.” “Oh would you give it a rest. Not this again.” “Absolutely not my dear. Absolutely not!” “Don’t patronize me.” “I would never…” “Really it’s not what you think.” “It’s not?” “No.” “Well alright then…” “OK, it is.” “It is what?” “I hate myself.” “Yes, I know.” “I know.” “I don’t know why though.” “It’s always something different.” “I know that’s not what I mean.” “What do you mean then?” “It really goes without saying.” “Does it now?” "Yes it does." “Apparently not given…” “Well it should.” “Well maybe you should enlighten me.” “Don’t turn this around on me.” “I’m not... I just don’t understand what you mean.” “Don’t understand or just don’t know?” “What’s the difference?” “The world.” “The world?” “I know that was a little dramatic, but I think there is a difference.” “A demarcation between understanding and knowledge?” “Yes, exactly!" “Over a meaning already established to be unknown?” “Unknown to you obviously.” “I didn’t mean to upset you.” “I’m not upset.” “I'm sorry. I’ll leave you to your studies.” “So you don’t want…” “Just tell me would you.” “I love you!” “Yes I know. I love you too hun, but what do you mean.” “I love you that’s what I mean.” “What does that have to do with anything?” “With anything?” “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant.” “I hope not.” “I meant what does that have to do with what we’re talking about?” “Everything.” “Everything?” “Yes, everything.” “Aren’t you being…” “No, no I am not.” “Can you explain please.” “I don’t know if it will do any good to be honest.” “We’ll it definitely won’t if we don’t try.” “I suppose.” “Well have at it then.” “Do you really want me too?” “Utterly so. I’m all ears. I promise.” “Why don’t you trust me?” “Wow! What?” “What do you mean what?” “What do you mean, what do you mean what? I thought I was getting explanation about all this not some treacherous open ended question about something completely else.” “I guess you’re right. I’m sorry.” “No it’s okay. I…” “But you do trust me, don’t you?” “Of course... With all my heart.” “And you know that I love you.” “Yes and I you.” “Then why can’t you love yourself like I love you?” “I don’t think that’s a fair comparison.” “Shouldn’t it be?” “Perhaps.” “Perhaps?” “Well it’s not like I want it this way. I don’t want to…” “I know you don’t.” “I shouldn’t either.” “No, you shouldn’t.” “But I do.” “Isn’t it odd.” -Thane Hounchell The skies were infected with the colors of her lost. Endless shades pulling her to remorse. Pulling and retracting her to a cruelty. A cruelty she cruelly refracted back out unto endless shades of the night sky. Infinite spectrums of heartache, infinite riddles of pain poured through the prisms of her eyes. The flood was upon her with not a levy to guard her from the water's rush. Waters rushing swifter with every quiver of her now chapped lips. Swift were the currents, but not near as swift as the thrust of the winds that brought them. For what is the tide to the storm that summons it. What are the waves of pain to the hurricane that bore them from asunder. What were the echoes of her sorrow compared to the man who first spoke them. -Thane Hounchell Once there was nothing, nothing, nothing at all
and then there was a bang and I do mean the big one and a pale blue dot was born with it's very own star and very own moon and on this dot a boy was born with ten fingers and ten toes he had a mom who cleaned and drank and a dad who worked and drank storing all their booze in the basement cabinet The boy grew through the grades up into his high school days keeping the same friends all the way whom he shared his deepest thoughts and they always shared the same and he got himself a girl and said he cared and meant it and he liked to kiss her on the lips the weekends brought parties and hangovers and sex and his parents didn't know In the time he spent alone he wrote poems and short stories because he liked to get it out and his grades weren't bad just above average and he smoked pot with his friends and they always brought a light and I don't mean the ones named 'Bic' I mean what gleams in the eyes and all this made him happy The boy grew to another grade into his sophomore days telling the same old friends his deepest and darkest thoughts and they said they felt the same and they lit up a joint and talked about space and how it's all nothing oh how this made them laugh and he made love to his girl and said he cared and said he meant it and Fridays brought the parties with the red plastic cups and Saturdays the vomit and his parents pretended not to know and he only wrote poems because that's all he thought to write and his grades weren't bad and he smoked pot with his friends and sometimes he smoked alone and he brought his own light and all this seemed to make him happy The boy grew another year into his 'whatever' days telling his closest friends his darkest, blackest thoughts and they said they felt the same and gave a peculiar look and ripped into their bong and talked about sports and the boy dazed into nothing and his girl found a new boy and he called her a whore and said he didn't care but he knew he didn't mean it and he started his party early straight from the bottle and continued it on the weekend and everyday brought vomit and his parents didn't care and booze went missing from the basement cabinet and he didn't write poems because he thought they were pretentious his grades slogged along and he got stoned with a friend and he got stoned all alone and he never saw a light and nothing made him anything The boy found himself in a new year his very last days telling his only friends his darkest inner thoughts and they said they didn't understand and they never spoke again and he drank all the time and smoked all the same and he never spoke to his girl anymore and never really thought about her he skipped the weekend parties because why would he go and he grew paranoid and formed a dark cloud deep within his minds endless dark and heavy and his parents were unaware and he feared time was round and he was destine to the same old fate for all of eternity he skipped a lot of class and his grades where nowhere to be found the same his friends said of him the weeks before 'it' happened and he smoked all alone because that was his habit on the eve of the day he said in a mirror cold and dry "I'm going to kill myself tomorrow" so that night he wrote a poem and said he didn't care and this time he really meant it so he took one of his dads razors and in the morning drew a bath and took some aspirin to thin the blood and he got in the tub and laid a while then he took a sigh and said "Fuck it" one slash to two wrists vertically and that was all that it took it didn't spray, just pumped slowly and he felt like going to sleep and he knew what that meant so he let down his eye lids and with a grin that no one saw he drifted out all alone and off with the fireworks in his brain and them came the rattle and soon enough came nothing, nothing, nothing at all. -Ethan Belding There are moments when we break free and are thrust into new and unknown spaces. This is often terrifying. This is often electrifying, but it is always bewildering first. Bewildering for truly new experiences always are just that. And it is only afterwards that we attach feelings other than our own confusion in face of the mysteriously unknown.
But being human we seek quite fervently the escape from all things beyond our grasp and flee back into what came before. We flee for we must… for our flight to the old world is the only one we know. Whether we wish to or not we must return to it for we can not exist without it. Only in it can we breath and move. Only in it can we see. The new was but a glimpse of something beyond, a revelation never again to be fully known and held. And no matter how clearly it was laid present to us, no matter how desperately we cling to it… it is left now to only our memory. And just as we return to our old world of old ways, so too does this memory of the new come with us. And in returning that which was new is corrupted and made new no more. It is loss and who we were before loss with it. But it is in this return that their most crucial moment lay waiting. The moment when they decide the outcome of this mysterious event, whatever in actuality it may have truly been, and ask the crucial questions. They ask… Who am I? This they will ask. Who am I in light of this? This they will wonder. Some who found this whole experience beyond experience to terrifying will seek to slip back to who they were and the Being they once knew. They will seek to return to that which they found comfort in though in comfort they will never fully lay again. Others will defy such comforts and seek to return head long into attaining the new fully for themselves once more. Some will seek to find this in the walk of the ascetics. Some will seek it in the deep contemplations of the philosophers. But all will be only chasers after a dream never again to be had no matter how desperately they close their eyes to the world and their ears to its noise to go to sleep. But is there not yet another way? Is there not a middle way? A way between denying the new and rejecting the old? For those who in faith and hope and love seek such a path between the subsistence of being-in-a-world now broken and the nothingness of chasing a world not yet possible... there is one path. One path among the manifold. One path in many they must walk. One path. Their own. Where this path will lead them no one can know and how it will wind and curve they cannot fathom. They cannot fathom the road ahead, but by grace they must not walk it alone. Though their path may be singular there are a multitude of others walking their own path. Walking their own path and seeking congruent things. Singular is the path, but manifold are those who walk it. All seeking to transform that which was once seemingly stagnant and fixed. All seeking transition from static souls to moving agents. This is no easy way for this is the most difficult way one can seek to travel in this life of ours. There is no map and they who choose it will have no guide to aid them and no light to guide them. No guide. No light. None except that which is their own and those beloved who seek to uplift them. But for those who seek neither Being or Nothingness there is only one path manifold. The path of Revolutionary Love. The path of Becoming and Being More… -Thane Hounchell Precious + oh so frightful Are the memories of a friend Precarious + oh so lovely Are the memories to which they attend Moments that have past And moved on down yonder stream Moments that would be lost If not for their memories For this they are so precious And lovely beyond compare And for this they too are frightful And precariously beyond our care For just as the stars that light the heavens So too are their memories beyond our reach We may gaze upon their shining But still the night's shadow it does creep For in the night lay darkness A darkness we wish we held alone And in the jewel of darkness So too has our friend made a home A home that holds different memories Memories all their own A home that keeps tales and sinful stories Histories never to be known And in home's dark hallways Things lay twisted And light forgets to shine As the candle light of love's first gleaming Gets lost among the cruel dreaming Of one too many unfriendly sighs Dear Mariam,
I know this might not surprise you of all people that I have done it once again. I know history, none less than that history which I call my own, is littered with foolish men gallivanting after the women they purport to love. Gallivanting long, long after that love is charming to behold and much, much before such a love was ever shared in the heart of the other. Much, much before it was ever shared at all for that matter. I hope you don't find it to terribly odd or even, understandably enough, too terribly cruel that I am writing to you on matters such as these given that you were once one to which my affection was attached, but I honestly feel as if I have no one of merit to which I can turn to for help in this moment. So if you can forgo any resentments you may bare towards me concerning our past I very much would like to ask of you your opinion concerning my present predicament, a predicament I have come to know as Rachel. She is very much like you Mariam in both demeanor and personal wit and it is a similarity that I am sure will cause you to truly despise her as much as it will spurn great empathy for her. For is it not true that we to some extent or another are forced to deeply scorn those we most truly know? Are not the halls of our understanding equally riddled with the most vicious respite as they are with the most vivacious love when concerned with another's soul? O' how I could go on and on with such questions as you most surely know, but for the present moment I wish merely to request you read this letter and in return write one of your own. For it is my dearest hope Mariam that you will write me back soon and we can discuss this situation of mine in greater detail and just maybe determine a solution for it as well. Thomas, the pessimist that he is, has repeatedly told me not to waste my time writing you and especially not to waste even the smallest ounce of my hope that this letter will go anywhere other than the flame upon its arrival to your estate... But then again Thomas does not know you such as I and I know your curiosity and sense of excitement could never allow you to neglect an invitation such as this. For this letter Mariam is nothing less than a call to great adventure and chaos in matters of the heart, a call you cannot and will not likely dismiss. So write to me soon my dearest Mariam, write to me and let this new and waiting calamity begin again. With Unrequited Care, Marcus
Something I've been milling over conceptually for a while. Maybe a short story or potential novella in the works. Maybe even a sequel of sorts to my prior work. All and all it definitely is in my eyes a more mature form of my writing stylistically speaking that captures the edgy existentialism of my first novel (As Skies Became Crimson) without the dependency on vulgarity (namely the excessive use of "fuck" in all its aesthetically pleasing forms and contexts :).
I have been alive for almost 34 years now and in those 33 years, soon to be 34, I have come to acquire two unassailable facts: the sky is a light shade of baby blue on my birthday every year and I am undoubtedly a bastard. Though I did not come to these facts by happenstance as I surely struggled to grasp them in their certainty, I most certainly have them now. I have them both and in possessing them am made nauseous. A nausea I seek to ease this coming summer celebration. For though I cannot snare from the sky the light that shades it so, I do hold another light quite timidly in the palm of my hand. In it's gentle breath I feel the warmth of freedom, my freedom, a freedom I soon wish to exercise if so able. -Thane Hounchell This is a piece that I started while I was in a mental institution for suicidal ideations and auditory hallucinations. The piece is extremely self reflective, and I hope it shows, even though I tried to mask some of that in an ambiguous nature. The piece features repetition that mirrors Kendrick Lamar’s “These Walls,” although it is of a different nature. The piece is intended to be spoken or read, so feel free to do either.
If These Walls Could Talk If These Walls Could Talk Maybe, just maybe they’d be a little less pale Maybe they’d be more vibrant in their expression, a little more humanistic. If these walls could talk They’d talk my ear off About past people who never made it If these walls could talk They’d talk my ear off About past people who barely scraped by. And are now living vicariously through those who didn’t make it. Those people might as well not make it if they don’t have us, they tell me. If these walls could talk They’d say how it was a shame that I don’t live vicariously through those that didn’t make it. That It’s a shame that I don’t live vicariously through the aforementioned “them.” They’d say how it was a shame that i don’t live vicariously through those that didn’t make it who live vicariously through those that didn’t make it. If these walls could talk They’d tell me all sorts of crazy shit to keep my mind from the task at hand If these walls could talk Maybe it would be easier if they were educated. If these walls could talk Maybe they’d see things through thick wavy coke bottle glasses. If these walls could talk They’d see the lack of need for them to talk. But since these walls do talk I shouldn’t listen to them. -Luke Smith |
AuthorThane Hounchell: Offensive around children, scared of cats. Archives
March 2018
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