walterdoege

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Month: March, 2013

slow fashion

I feel the dress and cloths as a second skin…some matter of style…some expression of myself…some missing of the old sewier, doing with its hands… unique dress, from the beggining to end…some slow labor…writing is a kind weaving phrases…that other dress done of words…the phrases up coming upon lines…building threads…embroidering with threads…improvised writings…searching for phrases…to send my praises…at my own pace…some slow labor…at times, some fast phrases…to send lovely words…writing fast or slow…waving craft…done of words, and love

autobiography matters anywhere

the autobiography is a source of literature and art…be a diary, be some avulse manuscripts, be some wondering writings…any one’s work is a worthy work…as I state autobiography as someone’s manifestation in good will, and with honesty…in that way, any written manifestation is literature…somehow I do take two points, literature and art, but in fact, literature is art and art is literature…so many blogs I see with a myriad of issues…be photo, art expression other than written material written as fiction…the human manifestation encompasses more than the written words, but I am a writer, and I’m interested to remind the importance of self expression through writing…in some of the spam comments the reader can see in this blog…I choose solely the friendly comments related to writer practice…some commentary I am comsidered a skilled blogger, and in others I am considered a professional blogger…well, I’m neither one, I am just a writer, a fiction writer, and the blog is the better way I choose to publish what I do write…the autobiography heritage is of utmost importance to me…so important as any written page of any acknowledged author…the importance of autobiographical writing is the remind that all peoples are writers, and remembering another writer, only few writers publish…one can say ‘what about Shakespeare work?’, and i can say, what about your own writing?…literature I sense and feel as a way of living…I live my life with joy because writing is an expression of myself, writing is a way of making sense of who I am…and you are so plenty of literature and art…just write, I guess Shakespeare would like to know about your inner expression…be in written words, spelled words, be in general art expression…anyone can sense the art inside of the heart…art is when joy and love walk together…and as a bird…lead us to lovely endless flights…and make the daily living a joyous shared experience…any instant a poem statement and poetic perception…somehow, art is ever building of a better world…lovefull word…trustfull peoples…a brand new world at each dawn

soften heart

its time of Easter…I don’t know the right word to narrate that party…honoring life, honoring love, honoring joy…remembrances of my childhood sundays…’soft furry rabbit of Easter, what you bring to me?, a sky bluish, a sunny yelowish, and a rosy reddish little eggs, what is its color?, how many I will give?’…at sunday’s Easter mornings the search for the yellow joyfull rabbit Easter generosity…some sentiment of humanity…nowadays I spent some hours painting some little eggs shells…children like…I like too

the tempest, nine months later

time passage…nine months…the tempest that broke some pieces of my house…the tempest that throw away the place where I still sit down, but that I felt like the most secure place in the universe…that corner of my house where I place my easy chair, my armchair…to read…to listen music…to take some writing…to take some talking…that tempest that put rainny water into my house…even through, my home remained safe…nowadays my house arrangement is good, the books are on the floor, and in my own pace I keep discoring some objects like my compass, my glasshours, other souvenirs, and some new way to décor and arrange my house on my old way…at that summer shuffle, some storms were strong…thunders in skies…strong rains…the roof is secure today…and some loyal doves keep choosing to live there

times, and a compass

yesterday after sundown, a rainbown color sky…coming back home, the streets were some paths to walk and move…at some point I could see a sparkling full moon…with my fitfteen minute hourglass I spend fifteen minutes searching for my one hour glasshour…put it near one window…the full moon was high at skies, and with my old compass I could track the times…after sometime of serching for it…the tempest, nine months later…arranged my house, and books, and papers…in some foggy way…the time I spent watching to that full moon, I could notice my old compass and my old wooded flute among a sort of hills of books near that window…brighty moon light…such an amazing night!…I keep on going on my own pace, but the compass is so old and so fragile…I feel I must show to the compass, from where the full moon sets…the same horizon point when the sun sets everyday…some geography of sentiment

one reason to smile

yesterday I take a little walk…yesterday was a busy day…the  streets were full of cars, peoples walking fast…the cars driving so slowly as its seems static…mobility in streets are being a hard task…many bicylcles too…much noise and confusion…at some point I take a stop, to keep on going…I sit down at a café in a shoppingcenter…not to shop anything, but stop, to keep on going…I asked for two cups of coffe and a small chocolate cake…that café is near movie lounge…after some time…perhaps one hour…I asked for another small chocolate cake…and I could return to a perception of some smoothing mood…I could hear the children playing and asking for chocolate eggs and the yellow rabbit…the decór of that shoppincenter was beautiful and simple…after some time, I guess one hour…I could smile and sense that it was all good…the night arrived…the streets resembled free ways…for expression of joy…the streets at nights are streets…to well and good wished futures…the cake was so good

the sun, the moon, the stars, and times

some natural timers, some natural clocks…so precise!…one can sense the sun roses and sets at hours that may be predicted, somehow…one can count a year as twelve or thirteen full moon…the moon regularly waxed and waned…that moon waving is depicted in skies…just see the moon!…the stars swing as by a clock work around the earth…our common house…the sand in glasshour is also some near natural clock…the dust upon my books on the floor near me, too…beyond the body, time seems some wind swept music I can listen sometimes

the music of everyday speech

I’m not a poet, although art and literature is one only one…the past week I take more attention to the poetics of the lively conversations…that music of everyday speech…I do study poetry, although I’m not a poet…that music of lively talking is the prosody of everyday living…that bond between peoples through words…also through other language skills…but the spoken and the listened words I listen as some spontaneous poem, some spontaneous poetics of daily living…at some instants, a true poem is builded…some rhyme, some rhythm, some form, some meter form…I sense my writing as a full lenght romancist effort, closer to my way of be…romance seems closer to some jazz writing, but a poem may be also, although a poem is some so short romance…some sort of free verse…sometimes some form of builded verse…maybe conversation is some poetic  talking…one verse of mine, one verse of your’s, one verse of our’s

painting egg’s shells

time passage…my hourglasses show…the narrow way where the sand strickling from the upper to the lower compartment…as from the past to the present…futures seems to me as wishes and possiblities of reinvention…from traditional task related to Easter party…it was a party fro me, and still remains a party…I don’t search for the hidden chocolat eggs, but I choose to paint some eggs’s shells with colorful themes…I will give them for the children, and for some close friends…and get with me some of them…one of them is some rainbow colorful, naive tonality, and it seems I painted some boat sailing a river…some pink boat in a blue river…the river flows to futures, as the love river flows…roll on, loving river, roll on…roll on river of sand, river of time…time seems the sand flowing from the upper site to the lower glass site…all my glasshour timer don’t time the time…time is countless…the glasshour are so beautiful…somehow, when I can stand near the one hour glasshour timer, and fix my attention, one hour seems a countless fiction…but without fiction, without some little portion of imagination, and good wil, and good labor… how to live a joyous life?

typewriter, and a sewing machine

I use to write in cursive handwriting sensing the pendriving along the paper…sometimes sensing the pencildriving along the paper…its some old fashioned practice of writing…sometimes I write upon where is possible…some piece of paper, on my booknote, on a napkin…some instant drive to place with written words a glimpse of an insight, of a sentiment, of an emotion, of a passion, of a paisage…I do barely some portraits…also I can write only in my mind for after write where available…my first book, a romance, I’ve written using all these devices, mostly handwriting and using after I’ve read what I’ve written the my old typewriter…it was some fifteen years ago…when the first digital devices, the old desk computer and cell phones arrived where I live…I can remember the sounds of the typewriter at my mother’s employment…she worked as tachigraphic writer and dactilographic writer…the sounding of the typewriter in her work lounge was heightened with other’s typewriter machines working together…it was a beautiful song for me…I can also hear the sewingmachine at home…nowadays I like to write in handwriting, utmost poetic impressions…while I am writing I feel how close writing is a kind of sewing words, weaving phrases, weaving cloths…cloths of words…as in a weaving task, the labor is to point out a thread of words…type and write the words, from the left to the right side, and turn on the next line, and keep writing from the left to the right side…after some time, the writing is interrupted…I can not stand writing all time…and when I read the text, the text seems a weavered cloth…some kind of patchwork, as I can sew some paragraph to other paragraph…writing is a way of living…literature is a way of living…art is a way of living, living the life in a better way…don’t wasting time, but spending time sharing some play, some smile…so needed smile…for those whom read what I weavered with a pen and a piece of paper…sewing patchs, parts, remembrances, imagination…I don’t know what is writing, I just write