"Wermulff" is too great a word not to write a story about it some time!

Choosing the Way - a quote by Bradbury

You have to know how to accept rejection and reject acceptance. Ray Bradbury

Poem: Brahma by Ralph Waldo Emerson

My husband's taking a Comparative Mythology class and preparing a project on Indian Mythology. Discussion of the various gods popped this poem back into my head. I chose it to memorize and recite to my American Literature Class when I was 16. Even then, I had an interest in spiritual search.

Now it reminds me of the chants we learned in yoga teacher training, and also of walking below towering redwoods in our favorite stand of trees, where the nature center has posted an Emerson quote. (Well, actually it reminds me of everything, based on its message!)

If the red slayer think he slays,

Or if the slain think he is slain,

They know not well the subtle ways

I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near,

Shadow and sunlight are the same,

The vanished gods to me appear,

And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings;

I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,

And pine in vain the sacred Seven;

But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

1856 [1857]

Photo credit to blog.discovermagazine.com

Today

Today, I am as lonely as a flower made
of crystal, stem pulled thin and taut
with an aching sharp precision
like iced steel, like frozen light
one fine thin beam that
nods from my head
to the world

My heart as full of fear as a beehive
abuzz with mechanical bees
Oblivious to sun, to air, to wind
they sweep on, down and away
from the tremulous, ever-vibrating hive
where nothing ever stops, where there
is no pause, and seeking only
to feed their insatiable hungers

Come to rest on my lovely, cold, glass
budhead, tempting, glittering
useless and unyielding to their
alloyed thrusts

Impermeable

Check Out

First she notices the nice shape of his ass, clad in carefully distressed denim, and promising agility and muscle, something worth grabbing onto.

He is standing with a man of his age at the counter, paying, and she wonders as she often does when seeing two attractive men together whether they are a gay couple. Hard to tell. They are laughing with each other, casual, but they could be simply friends. In which case, they would be horrified that the cute woman walking by thought they were gay.

As she passes, a tantilizing whiff of cologne pivots her head towards him. His driver's license is tucked into his wallet upside down. Careless or deliberately private? she debates.

There's so much she'll never find out about him. She pushes through the door and out onto the street, him never the wiser, and these words the only aspect of him that she will retain.

Eeks! Can Writers Make a Living From Their Words?

"Freelance writing's unfortunate new model

With many outlets slashing pay scales, the well-written story is in danger of becoming scarce. The hustle is just beginning for new and seasoned freelancers.

The list of freelance writing gigs on Craigslist goes on and on.

Trails.com will pay $15 for articles about the outdoors. Livestrong.com wants 500-word pieces on health for $30, or less. In this mix, the 16 cents a word offered by Green Business Quarterly ends up sounding almost bounteous, amounting to more than $100 per submission.
Other publishers pitch the grand opportunities they provide to "extend your personal brand" or to "showcase your work, influence others." That means working for nothing, just like the sailing magazine that offers its next editor-writer not a single doubloon but, instead, the opportunity to "participate in regattas all over the country."

What's sailing away, a decade into the 21st century, is the common conception that writing is a profession -- or at least a skilled craft that should come not only with psychic rewards but with something resembling a living wage..."

From ON THE MEDIA -January 06, 2010 James Rainey Los Angeles Times

Read the rest here.

For One Ferocious Moment...

Klaus strides up to the door. His sharp nose, short, sandy hair and dark-gray, fine wool overcoat catch the eye of the woman seated in the cafe’s window table. He would be almost perfectly non-descript if not for the anger radiating from his tense gait. The way he opens the door suggests barely concealed rage, something about the sharp bend of his elbow and the quick yank of his shoulder. Lord, she thinks, I hope he doesn’t have a gun.

Klaus scans the room and pivots on his heel to mistreat the door again. With a deep exhale, she realizes that she had been holding her breath.