Dude how in hell do you get into the detail so fast with your storytelling ? It's like in I'm back in high school English class trying to keep up with homework. Witch is funny because I flunked out of that class but I do remember discovering Poe for the very first time. The story where a guy buried himself in a wall. I will never forget that memory of reading that. I can even now recall sitting in class reading it and the world around me just melted away. Just me and the book,no class and no problems. It took me days to finish it because of being a slow reader but I still have a love of Poe. I even remember back in the day the Homicide episode of the man bricking himself in the wall and the never-ending heartbeat that can still be heard to this day. The first time I saw that episode, I went back in my mind to the English class and remember what it felt like to discover Poe. I was 16 at the time when that happened. What a hell of a memory to feel again and the added bonus a few years later of a great writer who put a Poe story on a TV show. You really can't make life up sometimes and now all these years later to maybe finally have the background on that episode adds to the heartbeat I still hear. Waiting is slow and the anticipation is agney but I know the end will come with a new breath of life but will the heartbeat continuing to beat new life into the old one. I often think of that actor putting the final brick into place with glowing candle light as he recites Poe and that long lasting heartbeat fading into black. That is still here with a beautiful memory of a lonely English class that I hated so much but with one moment of discovery a new door opened that day into the dark world of Poe. I will never forget. Stay the Course. Life is raw.
You just did it. It’s as simple, and as difficult, as following the images arising in your mind and not settling for generalities. Also stay with the images and the specifics - you will be rewarded AND if it’s not exactly true - make up the details, it’ll lead you to some new truth.
Yup I did do it. I need to get out of my head and stick with drawing in the image in my mind to find the detail. Just write ✍️. Not over think about writing and just have fun. Lot happening this weekend with the Anderson County movie. Have a great week ahead everyone.
Love your memory of Pie and that episode. Eerie for sure and just as vivid for me as you describe it. And love yr last line. Life is raw. Damn right. But most of us carry on- perhaps afraid of playing that last brick, perhaps in wait for another link to what you experienced in Eng Comp, perhaps just resilience of a human spirit that still wants to believe
I love “playing that last brick”! My sense is that’s a phrase for ‘the unknown’, as in there is no last brick, trick, or whatever. We’ll never know what it is until it is - so play through and as well as you can in the moment. Raw, carry-on and Mind The Gap!
That moment in English class is such a perfect photograph memory that I can recall the illustrations in the book of the eyes of the man behind the brick wall. I will never forget that feeling of thinking who is this man and how can I get him out. Yeah nuts right. I also can recall myself drawing that same image over and over again in art class. It begin an overwhelming obsession of drawing brick walls and dark shadows of how my mind needed to break open something. I remember the story as whole but a few words linger on. That time in my life was full of pain and trauma. I was in the mist of a break down of school and home life. So I quit school in tje middle of my 9th grade year and tried to find some kinda of peace with in myself and I found out how difficult getting my GED would be. It took me 5 time to take the math and finely finished it in 1999. Now here is the cool part. First time taking my writing part of the test. I nailed right off. I had to handwrite a essay, that I remember sitting at the desk and writing but don't recall what it was about and I plan to get in touch with the State of Texas somewhere in Austin to get the essay back. At the time the scores were a 1-6. Not sure on the grading average works but I got a 6. The highest you could get. Cool for me. Now here is a really weird part of this story. I grew thinking of my belief that I was never a good writer because of the mystery of dyslexia surrounding my whole childhood and turns out it is not true at all. Getting back to Poe,bricks, and walls we all need reminders of a powerful presence in our self to not build a wall up around ourselves and put bricks in a place where we can't breath and not suffocate ourselves with stress and worry. That moment a few years later I saw another man's eyes behind another brick wall with a candle light cascading a beautiful glow of the darkness around him and thinking of that time in English class and hoping someday I would get a chance to see this amazing story again play out on the small screen again,and here i sit watching it again with new eyes to see the background as an artist who had overcome the greatest of challenges that now I become a set photographer, writer, director who makes noir films that carry a Poe inspired quality time them. I embrace the darkness so well that there is confront in it. So the story of 'The Cask of Amontillado' will always be my discovery of happiness in the face of despair. I just pulled out my copy of Poe illustrated tales I bought a while back to familiarize myself with this elegant story again. What a day to be alive and to break a few bricks out of this wall in my mind. Stay the Course
For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat.
That penny skate board sat so comfortable in his hands. George's son moseyed to our porch sitting conversation. He was sweaty from the noon day sun, with more jump in him. It was nice to know that George had his family together in a half-together way. A half-way house down on east 35th, run by some evangelical used-cars salesman guy trying to atone for his hooker and booze habit, a business expense. That warm sunny afternoon with old and young laughing and cavorting on a summer hill with Baltimore City College's grand medieval tower in the distance. It was like we were so close to a palace for the people. George and his son, Mister Andrew and even little Momo, took a laughing gaze on the day.
The Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art is a good for a yawning affair. It is more fun with a crushed up Sackler dime bag of smack bought on a Baltimore street. A cold March night spares no one. The red and white amberlamps shine so damn bright, you don't have no shades that could cover it. George's son went off, in the night, in a gurney. He did not get any Baltimore Sun obit, just a lament and a sorrowful bow. The "Fall Free for All" sign sat in their yard, all through spring.
In darkness, from the candle sitting on her table, Claire’s shadow moves on the wall behind her. She is discreet and has sat there for hours unnoticed, except for a man who seems keenly interested in what she is doing. Now and then she lifts her head, feeling the intrusion. He notices she has seen him, so quickly diverts his gaze somewhere else. When she arrived, she placed her straw hat on the chair next to her, but now she puts it on her head, the brim low across her eyes. There is a mystery she conveys. Hours have gone by as she scribbles words in a tattered notebook. Often she sketches more then the words convey.
She is pleased and intrigued with what she has inked, a melody of words spilled across the page like jazz notes, beat by beat. It is passed midnight and into the wee hours that the poet of prose or rhyme observes, listens and writes as smoke - acrid and sweet - fills the air.
Underground coffee houses invite the profound who hear the night talking and feel the ambience of living. Amongst them are the lonely, the misunderstood, the shattered souls and heartsick. Most of the happy couples are long gone, as are those with stars in their eyes. She has been captivated by both, the cherished moments of bliss and the lingering melancholy days of slumber.
Tonight, she waits through the darkness for the edge of daylight. She tells a story rough around the edges, because that is what the night brings, until she chisels smoothness in the light.
Thank you…I’m excited to see where your prompts will carry it…I’m excited and anxious- life has so many polarities and what we seek is peace and a sense of longing to express it
He sat at the end of the bar on the stool that everyone knew was his and his alone. His cigarette burned in the ashtray in front of him. His rust-colored Ban-lon shirt stretched across his swollen stomach, small stains dotting its hem. A small glass of beer, half-full, kept him company while he greeted the usual patrons. He watched the bartender with scrutiny. Trust no one, he thought. These goddamn people will steal you blind. But not on his watch. His wife in the apartment above the bar had called him to dinner earlier. He rebuffed her invitation choosing instead to remain the ever-watchful, ever-vigilant sentinel. This bar was his domain and he would not relinquish his place on the bar stool, not even for his own nourishment. His oversight was of ultimate importance.
He sounds much more content with himself in this scene…even his wife calling him to dinner caused no agitation of should I go and not going. He feels some strength of being able to take of himself and what he needs to do for the bar…he has presence and he knew patrons knew it, “ he sat on the stool that everyone knew was his and his alone”, those 3 words describe it so well, and shows a much stronger character then if you would have left it with owe those words
Dude how in hell do you get into the detail so fast with your storytelling ? It's like in I'm back in high school English class trying to keep up with homework. Witch is funny because I flunked out of that class but I do remember discovering Poe for the very first time. The story where a guy buried himself in a wall. I will never forget that memory of reading that. I can even now recall sitting in class reading it and the world around me just melted away. Just me and the book,no class and no problems. It took me days to finish it because of being a slow reader but I still have a love of Poe. I even remember back in the day the Homicide episode of the man bricking himself in the wall and the never-ending heartbeat that can still be heard to this day. The first time I saw that episode, I went back in my mind to the English class and remember what it felt like to discover Poe. I was 16 at the time when that happened. What a hell of a memory to feel again and the added bonus a few years later of a great writer who put a Poe story on a TV show. You really can't make life up sometimes and now all these years later to maybe finally have the background on that episode adds to the heartbeat I still hear. Waiting is slow and the anticipation is agney but I know the end will come with a new breath of life but will the heartbeat continuing to beat new life into the old one. I often think of that actor putting the final brick into place with glowing candle light as he recites Poe and that long lasting heartbeat fading into black. That is still here with a beautiful memory of a lonely English class that I hated so much but with one moment of discovery a new door opened that day into the dark world of Poe. I will never forget. Stay the Course. Life is raw.
You just did it. It’s as simple, and as difficult, as following the images arising in your mind and not settling for generalities. Also stay with the images and the specifics - you will be rewarded AND if it’s not exactly true - make up the details, it’ll lead you to some new truth.
Yup I did do it. I need to get out of my head and stick with drawing in the image in my mind to find the detail. Just write ✍️. Not over think about writing and just have fun. Lot happening this weekend with the Anderson County movie. Have a great week ahead everyone.
Love your memory of Pie and that episode. Eerie for sure and just as vivid for me as you describe it. And love yr last line. Life is raw. Damn right. But most of us carry on- perhaps afraid of playing that last brick, perhaps in wait for another link to what you experienced in Eng Comp, perhaps just resilience of a human spirit that still wants to believe
I love “playing that last brick”! My sense is that’s a phrase for ‘the unknown’, as in there is no last brick, trick, or whatever. We’ll never know what it is until it is - so play through and as well as you can in the moment. Raw, carry-on and Mind The Gap!
That moment in English class is such a perfect photograph memory that I can recall the illustrations in the book of the eyes of the man behind the brick wall. I will never forget that feeling of thinking who is this man and how can I get him out. Yeah nuts right. I also can recall myself drawing that same image over and over again in art class. It begin an overwhelming obsession of drawing brick walls and dark shadows of how my mind needed to break open something. I remember the story as whole but a few words linger on. That time in my life was full of pain and trauma. I was in the mist of a break down of school and home life. So I quit school in tje middle of my 9th grade year and tried to find some kinda of peace with in myself and I found out how difficult getting my GED would be. It took me 5 time to take the math and finely finished it in 1999. Now here is the cool part. First time taking my writing part of the test. I nailed right off. I had to handwrite a essay, that I remember sitting at the desk and writing but don't recall what it was about and I plan to get in touch with the State of Texas somewhere in Austin to get the essay back. At the time the scores were a 1-6. Not sure on the grading average works but I got a 6. The highest you could get. Cool for me. Now here is a really weird part of this story. I grew thinking of my belief that I was never a good writer because of the mystery of dyslexia surrounding my whole childhood and turns out it is not true at all. Getting back to Poe,bricks, and walls we all need reminders of a powerful presence in our self to not build a wall up around ourselves and put bricks in a place where we can't breath and not suffocate ourselves with stress and worry. That moment a few years later I saw another man's eyes behind another brick wall with a candle light cascading a beautiful glow of the darkness around him and thinking of that time in English class and hoping someday I would get a chance to see this amazing story again play out on the small screen again,and here i sit watching it again with new eyes to see the background as an artist who had overcome the greatest of challenges that now I become a set photographer, writer, director who makes noir films that carry a Poe inspired quality time them. I embrace the darkness so well that there is confront in it. So the story of 'The Cask of Amontillado' will always be my discovery of happiness in the face of despair. I just pulled out my copy of Poe illustrated tales I bought a while back to familiarize myself with this elegant story again. What a day to be alive and to break a few bricks out of this wall in my mind. Stay the Course
For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat.
Poe
This will be a challenge for me, but I will attempt it. Have fun in “Looavul” Kyle!
That penny skate board sat so comfortable in his hands. George's son moseyed to our porch sitting conversation. He was sweaty from the noon day sun, with more jump in him. It was nice to know that George had his family together in a half-together way. A half-way house down on east 35th, run by some evangelical used-cars salesman guy trying to atone for his hooker and booze habit, a business expense. That warm sunny afternoon with old and young laughing and cavorting on a summer hill with Baltimore City College's grand medieval tower in the distance. It was like we were so close to a palace for the people. George and his son, Mister Andrew and even little Momo, took a laughing gaze on the day.
The Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art is a good for a yawning affair. It is more fun with a crushed up Sackler dime bag of smack bought on a Baltimore street. A cold March night spares no one. The red and white amberlamps shine so damn bright, you don't have no shades that could cover it. George's son went off, in the night, in a gurney. He did not get any Baltimore Sun obit, just a lament and a sorrowful bow. The "Fall Free for All" sign sat in their yard, all through spring.
So very rich in detail, language and heart. A hard one to take at the end. Great, Elena, thank you.
Kyle prompt807character
In darkness, from the candle sitting on her table, Claire’s shadow moves on the wall behind her. She is discreet and has sat there for hours unnoticed, except for a man who seems keenly interested in what she is doing. Now and then she lifts her head, feeling the intrusion. He notices she has seen him, so quickly diverts his gaze somewhere else. When she arrived, she placed her straw hat on the chair next to her, but now she puts it on her head, the brim low across her eyes. There is a mystery she conveys. Hours have gone by as she scribbles words in a tattered notebook. Often she sketches more then the words convey.
She is pleased and intrigued with what she has inked, a melody of words spilled across the page like jazz notes, beat by beat. It is passed midnight and into the wee hours that the poet of prose or rhyme observes, listens and writes as smoke - acrid and sweet - fills the air.
Underground coffee houses invite the profound who hear the night talking and feel the ambience of living. Amongst them are the lonely, the misunderstood, the shattered souls and heartsick. Most of the happy couples are long gone, as are those with stars in their eyes. She has been captivated by both, the cherished moments of bliss and the lingering melancholy days of slumber.
Tonight, she waits through the darkness for the edge of daylight. She tells a story rough around the edges, because that is what the night brings, until she chisels smoothness in the light.
Really beautiful Karen! Very interested in where this character goes.
Thank you…I’m excited to see where your prompts will carry it…I’m excited and anxious- life has so many polarities and what we seek is peace and a sense of longing to express it
I’m excited - love the idea of building something. 💗great prompts Kyle!
He sat at the end of the bar on the stool that everyone knew was his and his alone. His cigarette burned in the ashtray in front of him. His rust-colored Ban-lon shirt stretched across his swollen stomach, small stains dotting its hem. A small glass of beer, half-full, kept him company while he greeted the usual patrons. He watched the bartender with scrutiny. Trust no one, he thought. These goddamn people will steal you blind. But not on his watch. His wife in the apartment above the bar had called him to dinner earlier. He rebuffed her invitation choosing instead to remain the ever-watchful, ever-vigilant sentinel. This bar was his domain and he would not relinquish his place on the bar stool, not even for his own nourishment. His oversight was of ultimate importance.
And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother?
And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's barkeep?
He sounds much more content with himself in this scene…even his wife calling him to dinner caused no agitation of should I go and not going. He feels some strength of being able to take of himself and what he needs to do for the bar…he has presence and he knew patrons knew it, “ he sat on the stool that everyone knew was his and his alone”, those 3 words describe it so well, and shows a much stronger character then if you would have left it with owe those words