Spill yer guts.

General discussions of interest to readers and fans of Harlan Ellison.

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Tim Raven
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Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Fri Jul 04, 2014 10:38 am

Distance

Memory is not just information
memory is emotion
melancholy
happy
sad
like music
So why does the past feel lost to us?
because memory is not just information
memory is your life
receding in the distance


Tim Raven

DanielBarron
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Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby DanielBarron » Fri Jul 04, 2014 11:33 am

“Remember, Information is not knowledge; Knowledge is not Wisdom;
Wisdom is not truth; Truth is not beauty; Beauty is not love;
Love is not music; Music is the best.”

-- Frank Zappa

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Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Moderator » Fri Jul 04, 2014 1:44 pm

Tim Raven wrote:Distance

Memory is not just information
memory is emotion
melancholy
happy
sad
like music
So why does the past feel lost to us?
because memory is not just information
memory is your life
receding in the distance


Tim Raven


Fascinating coincidence -- I just reprinted my 53rd birthday essay which echoes many of your images here.

http://thumbnailtraveler.blogspot.com/2014/07/a-belated-birthday-essay.html
- I love to find adventure. All I need is a change of clothes, my Nikon, an open mind and a strong cup of coffee.

Tim Raven
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Joined: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:30 pm

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Sat Jul 05, 2014 9:22 am

Steve, I liked your post regarding reflections of the past. You have a writing style that is very centered and calm. Rational. I wish I had that ability to have two feet on the ground. I'm glad your health has taken such a robust turn for the better! Bonus at age 53...!

Still working on this one...



Distant Reports Echo

Memory is not just information
memory is emotion
melancholy
happy
sad
like music
So why does the past feel lost to us?
because memory is not just information
memory is your life
receding in the distance

a twelve shot cannon
meets twelve times the resistance
in a time of sparring
there is little combat
inside a basket
a plum
a tiny reticle
targets
lapses in resistance
and the power
to fly

Tradition is busy
contemplating the orange
a spot tinier than a mountain dreamscape
possibly the height of honor and wisdom
They can fly.
Not me
I’m a procurer of distillates
candied and processed
a point of honor
for the little scrunchers
that they combat this
forever intestate.

dreams can be confounding
and memory is the bed of our dreams


Tim Raven

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Chuck Messer
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Joined: Wed May 21, 2003 9:15 pm
Location: Lakewood, Colorado

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Chuck Messer » Sat Jul 05, 2014 11:57 am

Nice to see you back in action, Tim. I like how you expanded on Distance, though I'm still fond of the shorter version as well.

Chuck
Some people are wedded to their ideology the way nuns are wed to God.

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Ezra Lb.
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Joined: Wed Sep 01, 2004 8:02 am
Location: Washington, DC

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Ezra Lb. » Mon Jul 14, 2014 12:24 pm

Your Name

For many days I have searched for you
Until I throw up my hands in frustration
I cry out for you
needy
a beggar at a bus stop

Forever elsewhere
nowhere to be found
Only deep within my thoughts

I hide your name within my heart
But restless it pours out from my lips
I call out your name
Your name
“We must not always talk in the marketplace,” Hester Prynne said, “of what happens to us in the forest.”
-Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

Tim Raven
Posts: 255
Joined: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:30 pm

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Wed Aug 06, 2014 5:46 am

A simple edit and it is complete.


Distant Reports Echo

Memory is not just information
memory is emotion
melancholy
happy
sad
like music
So why does the past feel lost to us?
because memory is not just information
memory is your life
receding in the distance

dreams can be confounding
and memory is the bed of our dreams.

diane bartels
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Joined: Tue Mar 11, 2008 7:29 pm
Location: CHICAGO IL

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby diane bartels » Thu Aug 07, 2014 9:23 pm

I like both versions too.

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Lori Koonce
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Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Lori Koonce » Fri Aug 08, 2014 12:08 pm

Ezra

That is such a beautiful poem. I'd never thought you to be the romantic it appears you are.

Tim Raven
Posts: 255
Joined: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:30 pm

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Sat Aug 09, 2014 6:26 am

Talking to Myself

Solitude
is a good word
it sounds like it is
alone
is a bad word
implying
distance and
duress
I’m
confident
and
comfortable
in my
solitude.


Tim Raven

Tim Raven
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Joined: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:30 pm

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Sat Aug 09, 2014 6:30 am

My Latest Rap Song

Silence
is the moment after shooting down an ice ramp
and launching
weightless
into the air
twilight happens
at the best of moments
turnout for the
trial of the beast of the night
tuneless
to the shake of old Bambu
tuneless
to the strands of KajaGooGoo
too tight
this tuna on toast
is running
out of jokes
tryout
a fancy feast
of boa’s
on the fucking east coast.

Word.


Tim Raven

Tim Raven
Posts: 255
Joined: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:30 pm

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Sat Aug 09, 2014 6:31 am

Fuck it, the short version is better.

Distant Reports Echo

Memory is not just information
memory is emotion
melancholy
happy
sad
like music
So why does the past feel lost to us?
because memory is not just information
memory is your life
receding in the distance


Tim Raven

User avatar
Ezra Lb.
Posts: 4547
Joined: Wed Sep 01, 2004 8:02 am
Location: Washington, DC

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Ezra Lb. » Sat Aug 09, 2014 9:10 am

Thank you Lori. I've never really thought of myself that way. Perhaps it's true. And maybe I'm just another bozo who had his ass kicked and has been trying to explain it to himself ever since.


Hey Tim, a letter from Leonardo da Vinci! I don't know who it was originally addressed to but we can pretend he meant it for us.

My dear,

Art is never finished, only abandoned.

Art is not a race to be won by crossing a finish line at a certain distance. Art is not about capturing something ‘perfect’ and showing it to the world.

Are is about the imperfectness of it all, of life. Art is a teacher that teaches that this thing we’re doing is not about coming in first (whatever that means). Art shouts to us that we are all different and yet similar at the same time. It screams that this is not a race for we’re all running in different directions.

Art teaches us that we are never done learning, never done exploring, never done growing. And yet at the same times whispers that although we aren’t done growing we should constantly put ourselves out there like it does. Art is eternally unfinished and it knows that… And that’s the point.

Falsely yours,

Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci
“We must not always talk in the marketplace,” Hester Prynne said, “of what happens to us in the forest.”
-Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

Tim Raven
Posts: 255
Joined: Wed Dec 22, 2010 10:30 pm

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Tim Raven » Thu Sep 11, 2014 8:38 pm

I’m attempting to write something other than a poem. Writing prose is very difficult. I spent two weeks writing these 672 fucking words. Overall, though, I must have written five thousand. I’m not sure how far I’m going to take this one.

The House of 29 Doors

Garret



I cross my arms and fall forward into the ocean.
Shoom.

The bubbles clear and my body descends into the gloom, gliding and cartwheeling. A grotesque face appears from the deep twilight to greet me. Then another; the faces rise toward me again and again at increasing pace but I don’t care.

My thoughts drift in colors.

When I hit bottom in slow motion it surprises me. A vast infinity instantly becomes mundane gravel and mud. My head slowly floats to the left and I sense something dark. It’s a ladder. I pull myself up through the syrup brine and tangling plants. The water becomes warmer and warmer. Finally at the top of the ladder is a hatchway. I spin the wheel and crawl upward through.

Slam! The heavy lid slips from my fingers and now I’m dry! Dry and naked as a dinosaur bone. I listen to the silence intently.

Life is an illusion, we think. A cliche, but true.

“I know where you are.” she says.
“What?” he said, looking up.

He spotted where the voice was coming from. Gigantic book shelves of fine dusty wood encased the room. A small woman was in a lounging position speaking from one of the empty shelves. She was the same color as the wood and just as bare.

“Who are you?”
“An acquaintance.” she said. “I figured your first question would be where am I?”

He was confused. He hesitated for what seemed to him like a really long time. She remained motionless, staring back.

“I‘m not breathing. How long did I just stand here staring at you?”
“No clocks to measure it.” She rapidly scratched the bridge of her nose with her left pinky. “You pinched. You came in through this door, the first of many.”
“A door?”
“Exactly”.
She swung herself to the floor, her bare feet chuffing slightly on the lush antique carpet.
“Do you know my name?” he said with an uneasy rush, “I can’t get used to not breathing. It feels like glue inside me.”
She approached closer and her eyes became bright.
“No” she said.
He could feel her corona of body heat even before she placed her hand on his chest. He gripped her upper arm and noticed that she was covered in fine hair fuzz, almost white.
“No clothes, no secrets.” he said.
She reached down and squeezed.
“Let’s talk first.”
He disagreed.
They fit each other like a glove and were glad that time runs strangely here.



The view from the tower was impossible. It looked like a fall to the ocean coast below would take an hour. He leaned out of the window farther.
“You ever jump from here?” He was joking, but her face told him it was not a joke.
“Sometimes I feel like I've done everything possible and there’s nothing new left in the world. I look out of this window and wonder.”
“The world is constantly new, it’s our minds that rarely change.” he said. He backed out of the window and looked around the room. About thirty feet in diameter, they were in a tower room, part of the garret of a larger structure growing out of the top of a cliff. Looking down, the grey ocean pounded mindlessly amidst eternal salty mist.
Everything in this room looked familiar. It’s the vague feeling of nostalgia that you get looking at an old catalog that sells things that no longer exist; solutions to problems that life has passed by.
“It’s strange to me that I’m not more freaked out by this. I woke up a few minutes ago and now I’m acting like this is normal.”
She flopped down on a large stuffed chair. “We've both been in this room together before. You never remember. Out of everyone, you are the one who never remembers.” She squinched her toes a few times in the air.


He let that simmer for a bit. Then he jumped out of the window.
Shoom.



Tim Raven 9/11/2014

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Chuck Messer
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Location: Lakewood, Colorado

Re: Spill yer guts.

Postby Chuck Messer » Thu Sep 11, 2014 11:26 pm

Tim, an intriguing start. I want to know what happens next. Does everyone else jump? Why doesn't the mysterious woman jump, if that's the case. I'm interested.

I don't know who knows that I work at a landfill in Commerce City, north of Denver, CO. Commerce City is as charming and beautiful as the name would suggest.

Here, with profuse apologies to Carl Sandburg, is my Ode to Commerce City:

Commerce City
Router of coal trains
Refiner of oil and builder of crackerbox, ticky-tacky housing developments.
Site for power plants, terminal for FedEx
City of the Big Industrial Ponds.
Gravel Pit to the World.
They say you are ugly
And I answer There is no phrase in any language that says, “As beautiful as an oil refinery.”
Or Beautiful as a truck terminal.
Or Beautiful as a chemical plant
Or Beautiful as a landfill.
They say you are a red ant infested hemorrhoid on the ass end of the Greater Denver Metro Area
And I answer, “Yup, pretty much.”
They say your air quality sucks
And I answer, “*Cough cough* What?” Hack.
Dusty, polluted, with dirt, oil and coal ash smeared in your hair
Digging
Crapping
Belching
Gouging the Earth
Laughing with yellow teeth and shakin' that booty for the out-of-state developers.
Under that terrible burden of all those ass-tons of truck and train traffic
Concrete, galvanized iron siding, dirty brick
Filthy and cunning as a raccoon in a dumpster-diving paradise.
Petroleum cracker, chemical mixer, player with trains and blocker of intersections
And industrial eyesore to the world.

Chuck
Some people are wedded to their ideology the way nuns are wed to God.


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