We think that technical innovations change the human soul, the human spirit, the human body. They don't. The spirit stays the same.

Gerald Stern in an interview by Lia Purpura for The Writer's Chronicle. Vol 39, No 5

Superstitions

Twice today I didn’t listen to that inner-voice, because I was curious to see, if I did the opposite of what I was sensing, what would happen.

Is the proverbial “inner-voice” a new superstition? Do we mean the same thing when we say intuition? I think there is a subtle difference that I cannot quite lay claim to yet. I think there are those who want to create an industry around it; still, it’s not something that can be turned on and off. It seems to occur around what's meaningful in your life, not predictions of lotteries, presidents, or love life.

I'll be attending a worksop with Liam Callanan tomorrow in Waukesha. Callanan is the author of the Edgar Award-finalist, The Cloud Atlas (2004), and the new novel, All Saints, ("Luminous," says Publishers Weekly). He teaches in the English department at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee.

I've heard he is a very dynamic teacher.

But for the flowering of the human spirit, we need groups – tribes.
- Margaret Mead

Storms

Storms are scarier because the world is changing.
Before we knew about skies leaking ozone, polar caps melting. frigid waters mingling with tropical currents, we thought they were acts of God.

In spite of our prayers, storms flow into our lives slow and steady, house-by-house, man to woman to child; an unfocused rage that shatters memories, steals away and settles into our unconsciousness.

I’ve unraveled the signs: cloudy skies, wind and rain; the resignation of a voice in the depth of the day. When the damage is done we rebuild.
When love hurts, we fix it, or move on.
Storms are scarier because the world is changing, because we are changing.

E. Garrison

I'm reading a compilation of short stories by Raymond Carver. He was recommended by a friend. He's pretty damn good.

Days like this, filled with the senseless violence of hate, anger, and despair sadden me. There is nothing profound that can be said that hasn't been said many times over.

Cavemen

I wonder if cavemen worried
if their kids would ever leave home,
hoped their daughters would find decent guys to marry

bragged about the size of their club.
What were beer bellies called?

I wonder if the women
looked at their reflection
in the still water at river’s edge
and worried about their nails,
their hair, their wrinkles;

wondered if their men would come home
before the fire died and some thief
would come, and steal them away in the dark,

did they teach their children that sticks and stones
will break bones?
but words …

did two plus two matter?

Who were their heroes?
Did their generation need a Gandhi, or a King?

Did they have wars where thousands died
in extermination camps for an ideal …

What was the sound of love,
were rainbows brighter?

Who were these cavemen we are so ashamed
to claim as ancestors? They resemble us so much,

So much still depends on a club.