"Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it." -Hannah Arendt
Saturday, July 28, 2007
THIS WEEK ON WORDSTORY: PUNCH
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2 comments:
Anonymous
said...
I worked with a sweet woman named Vera (real name) a while back who was an easy person to have a crush on. Her smile was large, she wasn't afraid of singing out loud, and was the kind of person who could tell really good jokes. All in all the adjective "sweet" conveyed 99% of her existence in the world. Upon requesting her email I saw her other 1% as she gave me a piece of paper reading Vera(last name)@punchmyvagina.com
As we flew over the scene, I tried hard to see both sides. On one side, rolled the great blackened expanse where the village used to be, while on the other was blustering drunkard whose angry eruption and buried the others. Despite my human tethers, it seems that perhaps more sides exist than I'd like to admit. The crater, which looked more than anything like a punched out lesion, an ulcer whose puss is just running dry, is perhaps not the malevolent disease, but a natural symptom. In spite of my empathy for the villagers, who stood still while the earth moved, I can not think that perhaps we are the parasites being purged and buried in the ashes.
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2 comments:
I worked with a sweet woman named Vera (real name) a while back who was an easy person to have a crush on.
Her smile was large, she wasn't afraid of singing out loud, and was the kind of person who could tell really good jokes. All in all the adjective "sweet" conveyed 99% of her existence in the world. Upon requesting her email I saw her other 1% as she gave me a piece of paper reading Vera(last name)@punchmyvagina.com
As we flew over the scene, I tried hard to see both sides. On one side, rolled the great blackened expanse where the village used to be, while on the other was blustering drunkard whose angry eruption and buried the others.
Despite my human tethers, it seems that perhaps more sides exist than I'd like to admit. The crater, which looked more than anything like a punched out lesion, an ulcer whose puss is just running dry, is perhaps not the malevolent disease, but a natural symptom. In spite of my empathy for the villagers, who stood still while the earth moved, I can not think that perhaps we are the parasites being purged and buried in the ashes.
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