Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

I’m free…

Along with some of those tiny alternate universe me’s. Though I suppose a few of them might be trapped forever, giving some of you endless opportunities to viciously manipulate them.

And in their alternate universe, mayhaps some of their tumblr friends will be kind and write stories where they escape…

Maybe they’re the lucky ones. 😉

“I totally feel like this should be turned into a writing project. “kholinar get’s locked in”. We could all write little prose pieces about what you do while locked in your house.” – mylifeinitalics

I’m a little scared where some of those would go.

Makes me think of Grant Morrison’s view that our creations live in an alternate universe. Alternate, but real. The things you all might make those little me’s do. I shudder to think.

My laptop’s out in the car, I was running in to grab my laundry. So replies to posts will be made on my iPad without the luxury of missing-e. :p

Mylifeinitalics: I tried a basic sweep of the things necessary to survive a zombie apocalypse and got so depressed that I’m resorting to miscellany and thinking about a nap with the cat.

In my plus column, I now know that my cat, Loki, likes Jalapeño-flavored Cheetos(TM).

Knowledge will increase…

If New and Different Experiences Make Life Great

… Then this should be a great afternoon.

Deadbolt broke. I’m locked in my own apartment. I’m considering the balcony.

Or is it?

Poetry is
origin and meaning,
twisted and terrible,
forged to steel
by delicate fingers
in hearts like novas.
It is feather haired
infant cries,
gentle curved
sensual sighs carved
by knarled knuckle elders
as their breath fails.
Poems are a spotlight
that we drift down
like dust, our souls
illuminated as we fall
to earth.
Poetry is root
and poets are leaves
that turn and fall
and break.
And when we’ve
turned to ashes
those roots still
penetrate our being.