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  • Consider That One May Tire of Society

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    Matt

    On a clear day one can see forever. This lyrical snippet comes to mind. Given the collective melt-down in Japan, the aerial incursion into Libya, the weekly Jeremiads by Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin meeting with the Israelis to strengthen her bona fides, Ms. Angle running for office once more in Nevada, the moral detritus of the republic oozes into our consciousness and reminds me of how fragile is the human condition, how like a pie crust we are the seething cauldron beneath, all unconscious abroil, and how flimsy is our conscious awareness. The mind-numbing decadence of this age is everywhere,…

  • Disparate Tangents

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    Matt

    While working out at the local community gym thoughts began to coalesce about what I might write for this blog, associative threads formed and here it is. The most compelling is my dance to the death with the Arizona tax department and an audit. They are claiming, of course, I owe them money because I have not shown any profit in my writing. After five years I suppose I am to show a profit or I cannot claim on my return all the costs that come with writing. Consequently my writing is labeled more of a hobby than anything else. At first I…

  • Gone

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    Matt

    I recall working from a pad of white paper, perhaps 16 lb or so, often with silky carbon paper nearby. I owned a Smith Corona portable, blue bottom, beige sides, and so often abused by me over the years as I struggled typing my stories that I had to have the letter “e” resoldered on to the key more than once. I wish I had kept that apparatus, for I do miss the inserting of a snow white page and advancing the knob on the right side so that it grabbed and came out on the other side of the roller all ready…

  • Writings, of Late

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    Matt

    Before I begin, allow me to tell you that this piece will end with a poem. In The i Tetralogy I wrote several poems from a Nazi’s perspective and I ended the entire work with a psalm. Chutzpah runs in my blood. So does taking a risk while I am shitting in my pants. My first published poem was in the 1958 yearbook of Jamaica High School in jamaica, Queens (anyone out there who was a student?). I was a depressed young man and the poem reflects this. I wrote it on levels, to wit,  the description of water coursing down a stream,…