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I fought windmills with Don Quixote; I am Sancho. I rafted down the river as Huck Finn and eluded Javert with Jean Valjean. I lived through Napoleon's invasion of Rusia and threw myself under a train because of Count Vronsky. I am Hester Prynne, Mrs. Ramsay and Carol Milford; I might be Babbitt. I lived in China as Wang Lung. I felt the existential angst of Raskolnikov. I lived in a one room hell with Garcin. I also lived on Tortilla Flat and traveled with the joads along Route 66... You think I could exchange my soul for 30 pieces of silver and a pension plan? No! You think any material pleasure the world or man has to offer can reach my soul? I would just as soon hang myself from a tree and let my guts spill out rather than be a sellout... So, I will have a Mojito with Hemingway, fill my pockets with rocks, walk into the river Ouse... And live forever. (I want to thank Writch for helping me a little bit but if you don't like it blame me. I would like to be a real poet when I grow up.)

After nearly a year without posting on my blog here, I finally posted a piece. http://blog.chess.com/kurtgodden/review-the-art-of-planning

Crystal Clear By Writch © 4/12/2002 Crystal schlepped down the sidewalk with her bag still heavy with its precious cargo. So many rude people today did not want to share in her joy – joy that could so easily be their joy. Tucked away in the recesses of her PTL denim bag, the stacks of pamphlets and booklets shouting Salvation! to themselves. It was this unheard cry that was more of a burden to Crystal than the weight of the ink and paper on which the magical words were imprisoned. Gravity, conspiring with Satan, tugged Crystal’s head low and weighed the bag down even more. As her gaze was cast down, a glint from her sterling silver WWJD bracelet caught her eye. Crystal sighed heavily and looked back up from the pavement. What Would Jesus Do? Jesus would NOT be feeling sorry for Himself, she knew, He would take a quick breather and go at it again. Her mind wandered a bit… perhaps it too was weary because it strayed, What if He gave up? What if He propped the cross up against Macy’s for a half-an-hour while he stopped at a Starbucks and indulged in a double mocha? Would we sinners still have …? Crystal stopped dead in her tracks, threw her head back and her hands together. Oh dear Lord, I’m so sorry! Please forgive your humble servant! I did not mean that it the thought would ever occur to you, dear Jesus, thank you Lord for dying for my sins… Five minutes and a dozens mea culpas later, Crystal negotiated that a quick rest with a sip of water over some contemplative scripture reading would be acceptable. Surely that would be all-righty with the Almighty. After all, God in his omniscient wisdom is aware that His word is more effectively distributed by a cheerful, rested and conscious servant than one in the gutter passed out from exhaustion. Crystal looked about her and saw a small collection of half-populated patio tables on the sidewalk outside a deli. She made for one on the perimeter, out of direct view of the inside counter and register. Next to it, she hesitated. There was one of those ill-mannered individuals with their cell phone locked to their ear and carrying on in a loud voice as if the world dropped away when they picked up a call. Would she be able to concentrate on the Good News with that woman gabbing? Her faith would give her strength. Steady on, Crystal, steady on…. Standing next to the table, Crystal tucked her bottled water under arm while she fished through her bag for the pre-moistened antiseptic wipes in her purse. Finding the container, she tugged one out and wiped down the patio furniture chair (the surface where she would sit, might lean back, and could possibly rest her arms). Taking her place in the cleansed seat, she then meticulously repeated the ritual on the glass top of the metal-framed patio table in front of her. Having purified her new station, Crystal removed a floral, ornate handkerchief from her PTL purse, and placed it carefully and precisely on the clean table surface before her. Then from her purse, she pulled out a small bundle that was neatly wrapped in a silken kerchief, which she gingerly unwrapped to reveal a dog-eared, well-worn bible with tags and bookmarks bristling from every angle along its gilded page edges. She opened it randomly and placed it square on the kerchief before her (well, not really so random because she needed inspiration and so opened it toward the back, in the Gospels, far away from Job, which she really hadn’t the strength to deal with just now). Taking a generous tug at her bottle, she gently swished it around in her mouth, and then swallowed. Noticing that the lady at the table next to her had ended her noisy conversation, she thought this would be an opportunity for prayer. She folded her hands, and bowed her head to ask for guidance in her reading. Dear precious Jesus, my Savior and Lord, please find it in Your heart to speak to me today through Your Word, the Holy Bible. I pray that I may hear Your voice inside me so that I may know your divine Will. I humbly seek Your… BREEEEET BREET…. BREEEEET BREET…. That devil’s device, the cell phone. Crystal’s concentration was lost. She paused to collect her thoughts and wait for the woman to answer and halt the infernal racket. “Jesus Christ! How ARE you?!?!!” Crystal’s heart dropped. No, Lord, me…. Talk to me! I beg of you… “My God, Where have you been? It’s been so long since we’ve heard from you!” I know where You’ve been, Jesus. I know You’ve dwelled among us all along, in our hearts and through the works of Your devoted followers…. Talk to me, Lord, I pray… “Really? You’ve been there all this time? God, I’ll be honest: most of us have given up on you…. You should have left a message or something…” Jesus, I’ve never given up on You! When I did find your message through Your Word, the Living Word, the Gospel, I found that You never left, that You never would. I’ve never given up… Talk to me, Lord, call me… “Oh. I didn’t know. But your father sent you here, I’m sure he knew that you were in trouble. He couldn’t help you?” Crystal was shaking. Her brows furrowed. Her knuckles were turning white as she tightened the clasp of her fingers. “Wouldn’t?!?!” The woman raised her voice in disbelief. “Well of course it was your choice to come here, and you have to live with your choices…. But it seems a little harsh that he could have sent a little something, knowing how you were being treated and all.” For our sins, Lord, I know it; I BELIEVE IT! I know that You chose to redeem us up on that cross. Thank You, Jesus, oh thank You. “Listen, will you be back soon? I’d really like to see you and catch up.” Please, Lord, yes… please come soon, I'm helping prepare the way. “Oh. All that really has to happen first, eh?” The woman sighed. “Well, I’m not sure. I could ask the others to pitch in or something, but seeing as they haven’t had much to do with you for all this time, it might be hard to convince them.” You know I am, Lord God, Let me show you. Talk to me, Lord. Look at my works… Why aren’t you talking to me instead of her? “Okay, okay. I’ll let you go. You must be busy with all that’s going on. Hey just give me a buzz soon and we’ll break bread together. I’ll invite John and Mark over and we’ll get together like old times? Great! Looking forward to hearing from you soon.... Love ya, Mmmmmbuh-bye.” Amen. We’ll be in touch soon… I feel it. Crystal’s heart throbbed hard. It was climbing her up her throat with a vengeance. Her mind raced as she tried to remember all that she had heard about cell phones. They have caller ID, right? Crystal searched her memory hard as she quickly but carefully packed up her Bible. They can see the originating number, I think… Having packed her things, Crystal stood and casually looked over at the woman next to her, who casually ignored her back. Two feet from Crystal’s hand was the cell phone lying innocently on the table. No, I can’t, that’s breaking a Commandment. But still, God must have had her leave it there for a reason. He called this lady at precisely the same time I was talking to Him in prayer…. Then a light went on in her head. She fished into her bag, pretending to look for a tip, and until her fingers found the coin purse where she stashed a tightly wadded-up $100 for emergencies. In the darkness of her purse, she quickly unfolded it and inserted into a randomly selected Jack T. Chick cartoon tracts from the stack. With her right hand, she quickly slapped the stuffed booklet down on the table and grabbed the cell phone with her left, declaring “Jesus loves you, Praise the Lord!” Crystal cringed as she looked at which booklet God had guided her hand in the darkness of her purse, but had no time to swap it with another. She bolted. Forgive me, Lord, but I need to talk to you! The woman, in shock, let out a feeble “Hey!” and looked back at the table where her phone had just been. There sat a 3x5 booklet with a robber effigy and with bold letters next to him, The Thief.

Is it the lack of Light, depleted brightness, or is it secreted blightness - a thick, smothering Ether? Is the Dark either bad or just not good, or is it just some other either? Is The Void a toy that the Troubled pick-up and play with like an anti-joy bauble? Or is the Emptiness a place to go for the Can't-Take-No-Mores who seek asylum from the Full-of-Its? Is Nowhere-Nothingness a tool to use for untangling the Knots that will not slip after looking everywhere and trying everything? Why is the Dark only where I cannot see, but so desparately need to?

Hello, I did originally post this in the open discussion group. Due to some people's lack of humour it was not received particularly well. I've decided to try again here in the hopes that people will not take it seriously and that I''m not trying to compete with literature's timeless classics. This is just a bit of fun(for you, not me, I'm not gonna let, 'them' 'get me')

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/09/books/09maslin.html

Guys, Im very new on the group, Id like to say hi and post a link of some short stories and thoughts. seandearth.blogspot.comI have been writing less recently (last year or so) but i would like to pick it up. I can also tell you that my first language is spanish, so there are probably a lot of wrongfully spelled words.Comments, and or criticism welcome. cheers, sebastian

Poetic Terrorism WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy. Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss. Later they will come to realize that for a few moments they believed in something extraordinary, & will perhaps be driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of existence. Bolt up brass commemorative plaques in places (public or private) where you have experienced a revelation or had a particularly fulfilling sexual experience, etc. Go naked for a sign. Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence & spiritual beauty. Grafitti-art loaned some grace to ugly subways & rigid public momuments--PT-art can also be created for public places: poems scrawled in courthouse lavatories, small fetishes abandoned in parks & restaurants, xerox-art under windshield-wipers of parked cars, Big Character Slogans pasted on playground walls, anonymous letters mailed to random or chosen recipients (mail fraud), pirate radio transmissions, wet cement... The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror-- powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst--no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is "signed" or anonymous, if it does not change someone's life (aside from the artist) it fails. PT is an act in a Theater of Cruelty which has no stage, no rows of seats, no tickets & no walls. In order to work at all, PT must categorically be divorced from all conventional structures for art consumption (galleries, publications, media). Even the guerilla Situationist tactics of street theater are perhaps too well known & expected now. An exquisite seduction carried out not only in the cause of mutual satisfaction but also as a conscious act in a deliberately beautiful life--may be the ultimate PT. The PTerrorist behaves like a confidence-trickster whose aim is not money but CHANGE. Don't do PT for other artists, do it for people who will not realize (at least for a few moments) that what you have done is art. Avoid recognizable art-categories, avoid politics, don't stick around to argue, don't be sentimental; be ruthless, take risks, vandalize only what must be defaced, do something children will remember all their lives--but don't be spontaneous unless the PT Muse has possessed you. Dress up. Leave a false name. Be legendary. The best PT is against the law, but don't get caught. Art as crime; crime as art.

One of my favorite poets of all time, these are absolutlely stunning pieces.. THE WORDA pen appeared, and the god said:"Write what it is to beman." And my hand hoveredlong over the bare page,until there, like footprintsof the lost traveller, letterstook shape on the page'sblankness, and I spelled outthe word "lonely". And my hand movedto erase it; but the voicesof all those waiting at life'swindow cried out loud: "It is true."ANN GRIFFITHSo God spoke to her,she the poor girl from the villagewithout learning. "Play me,"he said, "on the white keysof your body. I have seen you dancefor the bridegrooms that were notto be, while I waited for youunder the ripening boughs ofthe myrtle. These people know meonly in the thin hymns ofthe mind, in the arid sermonsand prayers. I am the live God,nailed fast to the old treeof a nation by its unrealtears. I thirst, I thirstfor the spring water. Draw it upfor me from your heart's well and I will changeit to wine upon your unkissed lips.THE COMBATYou have no name.We have wrestled with you allday, and now night approaches,the darkness from which we emergedseeking; and anonymousyou withdraw, leaving us nursingour bruises, our dislocations.For the failure of languagethere is no redress. The physiciststell us your size, the chemiststhe ingredients of yourthinking. But who you aredoes not appear, nor whyon the innocent marchesof vocabulary you should chooseto engage us, belabouring uswith your silence. We die, we diewith the knowledge that your resistanceis endless at the frontier of the great poem.ALIVEIt is alive. It is you,God. Looking out I can seeno death. The earth moves, thesea moves, the wind goeson its exuberantjourneys. Many creaturesreflect you, the flowersyour color, the tides the precisionof your calculations. Thereis nothing too amplefor you to overflow, nothingso small that your workmanshipis not revealed. I listenand it is you speaking,I find the place where you laywarm. At night, if I waken,there are the sleepless conurbationsof the stars. The darknessis the deepening shadowof your presence; the silence aprocess in the metabolismof the being of love.

WREATH Would that Wisdom well up within you,widely, fully, swelluntil she forms a shell which surroundsyou like a shield, fed from your will.She is visible, porcelain, shimmering, and allwho watch see her here and know she haschosen just this moment to appear,white, wild, wrappedlike a wreath around your skull. Prometheus convinced Zeus to let him free the troubling "pain" occupying the high lords head. And in allowing the demi-titan to physically open his skull, he inadvertently created the beginning of not only the immediate creation of man but also as time would reveal, human enlightenment. As Prometheus struck open his lords mind, which gave birth to Athena; so too did they begin the consummations of mankind. From his hand and her breath did the very first dull forms of the lesser race arise. Then after Athena taught Prometheus the art of knowledge, he passed unto his children the gift of reason, and in doing so defiance. Here it may be said is the beginning of self awareness. And it is in the act of acquiring this existential posture where the body of the poem turns from Greek myth to Shakespearean soulfulness. " wrappedlike a wreath around your skull" lends to the minds eye a vision of the young Prince, who challenged by the death of his father finds solace in birthing his own individual, and personal living. The skull and the wreath represent mans own conquered ambiguity. It is at this point, when the poem comes to an end that one can at last truly embrace the natural knowledge of universal order. The poem is short lived on the page but when read aloud allows a lengthening of meaning. With its carefully timed iambic stresses being pressed into action by a more natural everyday speech, it becomes accessible in our demystified twenty first century science based understanding of knowledge. There is almost a joking challenge to the conventional wisdom which dominates our current societal structures

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/how-to-get-a-book-deal-1700067.html

http://www.believermag.com/issues/200906/?read=article_hely

http://www.slate.com/id/2219768/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0LgMpfLD1Y A Book by Dr. Seuss

http://www.nplusonemag.com/

http://www.forbes.com/2009/05/19/leonard-cohen-poetry-opinions-columnists-music.html?partner=email

Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed will come to Helsinki, Finland in August to share an evening with their poetry and music. Has anyone seen them performing together lately?

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/bookreviews/5291671/Endpaper---Fiction-reaches-a-new-level.html

http://www.tnr.com/booksarts/story.html?id=30f007e1-9a95-4dea-98dc-af9ad009aaaf