by Bill Williams
Part 1
The Living Posthumous
How many times have you thought ... "I wish I could do that better"? A hundred? A thousand? You must be old.
I have never thought that.
Among us, however, there are those, this website's Bart Jones in particular, who would attack me for my poetic craft. They not only pretend their path is important and what's more, in control, but they also quiver and shudder as they live and breathe a sense of continuous failure.
It is a failure of not being good enough in their own eyes and that's something you can never escape. So while he chases me across what seems like aeons of time, his tail belongs to himself and not I.
Such is my grace under the pressure of his meagre stupidity, I have even given him written notice of my book launches and if he has something to say in public, let him say it there in the Australian way instead of whispering behind my back. Not our Bart Jones. He prefers to lurk behind his pen, coming out only in his darkest moments - those of the black dog.
Let the reader beware of his false imitations and lies.
When I wrote the poem A Thousand Dreams, you were invited into a new dream, a gospel song for the soul.
As whales sing 'cross the vast oceans, I say that so do we call to ourselves across lifetimes and in that gliding, watery call we might learn to walk forward into a brand new dawn, our hearts shining and our loins strong in the knowledge of immortality.
The reader waltzes with me into the existential fire-dance of creation that is our atoms, our molecules, our proteins. In short - us, boiling away with all those reactions going on at once..
Yet we are fallen angels and to maintain the fall is fall itself.
We do choose the slower eyes of seeing. Like how hard a hammer hits your thumb yet knowing in your self that iron is not so tough. In science, those atoms are but made of charge (electrons, neutrons and protons) and that's what makes a hammer hurt me. They also say an atom is mostly empty. Heck what is going on here - crikey that hammer hurts.
Common sense is what you need Bart Jones not these buckets of criticism you swash about the poop deck.
Existential writing is to fly over the possibilities of existence, not pretend like you. Choosing your words more carefully would make a big difference to your retirement plans. Bart, how do you know it isn't me who tells you what to do?
Perhaps you might be better off without the pen and shadows.
Perhaps you could work for the pound instead? I am sure you could say you had lived a better life then.
