My spine still works. That’s always useful.
I understood that one’s environment is a key to one’s identity, but that my environment, Papa Song’s, was a key I had lost.
Listening to houses breathe makes you feel weightless.
Half-sloshed mums’re rolling their eyes at sun-pinked dads burning bangers on barbecues.
Mental maps. Maps with edges. And for Auden, for so many of us, it’s the edges of the maps that fascinate...
The corporations have money, power, and influence. Our sole weapon is public outrage.
Jealous and sweet, this music was, sobbing and gorgeous, muddy and crystal. But if the right words existed the music wouldn’t need to.
Us elderly are the modern lepers.
My curiosity is dying, I told Professor Mephi one pleasant day, during a seminar on Thomas Paine. I remember the sounds of a baseball game drifting thru his open window. My mentor said we had to identify the source of this malady, and urgently. I said something about reading not being knowledge, about knowledge without xperience being food without sustenance. “You need to get out more,” remarked the professor.
Olly’s glowing; if he was six inches tall and fluffy, Toys R Us would ship him by the thousands.
Your power stations, your cars, your creature comforts. Well, you lived too long. The bill’s due. Today.
He wondered if identity is drawn not in indelible ink, but by a light 5H pencil.
My recent adventures have made me quite the philosopher, especially at night, when I hear naught but the stream grinding boulders into pebbles through an unhurried eternity.
I envy the God-intoxicated Boyces of the world. Prayer may be a placebo for the disease of helplessness, but placebos can make you feel better.
When a parent dies, a filing cabinet full of all the fascinating stuff also ceases to exist. I never imagined how hungry I’d be one day to look inside it.
Trees, their incremental gymnastics and noisy silence, are another wonder of Outside to me.
Such inbred, bovine torpor!
I recognised love. It forms like a weather pattern.
European music is passionately savage, broken by long silences.
Prescient woman called Meronym visited my dwellin’ for a spell, an’ nothin’d be the same, not in my life, not in the Valleys, nay, not never.