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Sunday Schooled

- by Typewriter Fox

I will never be called to the river. I will never be washed clean. Sorry, Preacher Man.  There is just no saving my soul. Some sins simply defy absolution.  Some mistakes linger irreparably in their durable definitions.  And some regrets rage and fester, like an undiagnosed cancer storming unchecked through the soft tissues of an untimely surrender. The wrongs I have committed far outweigh the rights; the karmic balance remains stubbornly shifted forever in favor against me.  And I have neither justification, nor diligence, against what is ultimately coming due. There is no defending the indefensible position- therein lies only exhausting madness.  There is no justifying the indiscreet indiscretions- therein lies only more lies.  There is no forgiving the unforgivable- therein lies the undeniable tragedy of …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Total Ellipsis of the Heart…

- by Typewriter Fox

It seems the whole of my existence is bound by the rigid principles of punctuation. All these tiny marks punched into thin paper help to anchor me, late into an unseasonably snowy spring night when the muffled blanket of unexpected purity strains to cover this sickly City of Wayne shivering alone in the dark.  Little tangible reminders, peppering the fragility of an entirely different whiteness, deeply regimented and somehow keeping time with the lullaby piano music echoing through an empty blue house teetering on new collapse, stand out to me and I realize just how deeply I am caught in their embrace.  Sometimes, they hit harsh and unforgiving.  Sometimes, like a heated, diasterous love affair tragically crumbling into that inevitable bittersweet nothingness, you simply cannot escape …

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Blog Posts / Pandemic / Random / Writing

Day 78: A Hug That Changed The World

- by Typewriter Fox

After a long weekend of participating in the protests still surging strong here in the City of Wayne, I knew that yesterday it was time to be a somewhat responsible adult and to try and tackle some of my day job responsibilities.  I promised myself that if I accomplished that, then I would after treat myself and head to the north part of the city to hit that new pub that had recently opened.  That would allow me the opportunity to tackle either some long-ignored editing chores, or if I was perhaps lucky enough, to maybe bang out a few new words.  Because yes, I compulsively take my typer with me everywhere I go. But more than anything, I wanted to enjoy a few pints properly …

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Random / Writing

House of Bullshit

- by Typewriter Fox

House. Land. Property. Ownership. The ubiquitous american dream. Hunter went all the way to Las Vegas to find it, up on that little hill, with the right kind of eyes. My parents’ generation fought first to fuck it all up, then later to passively-aggressively nurse it all back to health. My generation lost it, though we had precious little claim on it from the beginning.

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