eremacausis

We are made up of our expe­ri­ences, what hap­pens to us, what we hap­pen. That is why mem­ory is a door. We enter, we exit. The mur­derer, who can for­get his acts of vio­lence, is no longer a mur­derer. When I see her stand­ing there weep­ing, paint­ing her young face caged, I walk over and …

There is a fault line run­ning between my shoul­ders and the base of my skull. This would not be a prob­lem, it is not active; except for the many peo­ple liv­ing alongs its invis­i­ble divide, set­ting up homes, plant­ing trees, play­ing coop­er­a­tive games; except for those times I stomp from this place to another, hand …

All of these reli­gious men hang­ing upon walls. With­out words, lines, splashes of colour what legacy, what great­ness is theirs? We err. Impacted by the loud, the colour­ful, the lumi­nous; stone­flies; we have no say. A philoso­pher is a harp lulling us to sleep. A priest, a splin­ter of flax. And I, well, what am I? I …

As a man, I can­not com­pare the rev­e­la­tion of a char­ac­ter to the giv­ing of birth. As a father, how­ever, I can speak of the joy and pain of watch­ing these char­ac­ters grow up, a piece of myself woven into each one. The seed of the world around me, the peo­ple close and far that I …

This desk is an amal­gam of children’s wishes, per­sonal reminders, lit­er­ary moti­va­tors and reli­gious tra­di­tion. Like its clut­tered draw­ers and scat­tered shelves, these four com­po­nents attempt to pro­vide orga­ni­za­tion and sep­a­ra­tion to ele­ments of life that are insep­a­ra­ble. My life is a study in sep­a­ra­tion, divi­sion, secrecy. Beneath the clut­ter is a sim­plic­ity that, with …

The ménage and mes­suage of the writer are con­stantly chang­ing. Once, open, empty so thoughts echo off unseen bound­aries return­ing as sub­tle, novel sug­ges­tions. Again, occlu­sive mine-shafts, crowded for­eign tongues vying for a madman’s rea­son. It is not a process: there is no begin­ning or end, birth-death. It is not a moment. It is a …

I am a blind fool crip­pled with stage fright before an empty theatre.

I have just read some­thin­gorother by soandso that has me think­ing suchand­such, and I won­der if it is worth writ­ing about. That which was read deals with the value of writ­ing on top­ics of the prickly sort, while indi­cat­ing way(s) of exit through gaps in the thorns — clearer yet: how one can cheat human …

Where we find our­selves, this place, this land, this peo­ple, this suf­fer­ing, this hap­pi­ness, this rev­elry, this dying. It makes us love and hate, whereas before, though lean­ing close to such an emo­tional precipice, we remained safe, untouched, untouch­able. We have tried through­out our brief his­tory to act with­out being acted upon, yet this has kept …