Owen Wyke
@owenwyke.bsky.social
620 followers 580 following 270 posts
Storyteller (https://gonelawn.net/owenwyke) & founding editor of Gone Lawn Journal (@gonelawn.bsky.social) Studied words and images in New Haven & Boston. Now living in some fateless middle-swim bedeviled by mountain laurels, coyotes and bells, bells.
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owenwyke.bsky.social
My least unfavorite song I wrote when I was twenty was a little devil called "Talmadge." It went,

Talmadge?
Talmadge?
Talmadge?
Talmadge.
Talmadge?
Talmadge.
Talmadge.
Talmadge.
(Screams hysterically):
Talmadge!!
Talmadge!!
Talmadge!!
Talmadge!!

(repeats)

Beautiful, no?
owenwyke.bsky.social
There needs to be a word for that feeling you get when you wake up and a song you wrote when you were twenty is in your head.

No, they weren't good, they were all terrible and I was the worst guitarist ever.

Even the lyrics were just awful.

Damnn
owenwyke.bsky.social
Frost on the ground this morning, in northeast CT.

So, if we get a warm week following this, then it'll *actually* be what's known as Indian Summer.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Anyone who says they "can see bullshit a mile away" doesn't understand what bullshit is.
owenwyke.bsky.social
I miss hiking. I love posts about hiking but I miss it, because I cannot do it any longer. Even the slightest hill is dangerous for me. I cannot do it any longer. I miss the blue trail of Sleeping Giant, leading to the cliffs of the yellow trail.

I miss hiking.
owenwyke.bsky.social
It feels weird to have to rely on electricity for your livelihood, but that's how it is. I cannot write or edit without it. Once upon a time this was not so. That is not to say that I miss those times, but I feel bad for having to say so.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Mary Oliver's "Aunt Elsie's Night Music"
Aunt Elsie's Night Music
Aunt Elsie hears
Singing in the night, So l am sent running To search under the trees.
I stand in the dark hearing nothing--Or, at least, not what she hears-
Uncle William singing again
Irish lullabies.
I stay awhile, then turn and go inside.
Uncle William's been dead for years.
2
Climbing the steps, I think of what to say:
"I saw a bird stretching its wings in the moonlight."
"There were marks on the grass— maybe they were footprints."
"Next time I'll be quicker."
She's as wrinkled as a leaf
You carry in your pocket for a charm And fold and unfold
She's so old there's no hope.
She's so crazy there's no end
To the things she thinks are happening: Strangers have taken her house, They have stolen her kitchen, They have put her in a cold bed.
It is summer. The singing grows urgent.
Twice a weck, sometimes more,
Iam called from sleep to walk in the night And think of death.
I have been to the graveyard.
I have seen Uncle William's name
Written in stanc.
I snap off the flashlight
And come in from the darkness under the trees
To the bedroom. Aunt Elsc is waiting I lean close to the pink car.
5
Maybe this is what love is, And always will be, all my life.
Whispering,
I give her an inch of hope
To bite on, like a bullet.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Mine is full of bills and nonsense.
frogandtoadbot.bsky.social
Every day my mailbox is empty.
Toad's mailbox awaits...something.

From "The Letter"
In *Frog and Toad Are Friends*
owenwyke.bsky.social
Honestly, I feel kind of stupid for not knowing about her.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Why/how has Mary Oliver been kept hidden from me for so long? She's a veritable genius, better than Yeats.
Some Questions You Might Ask

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
The wings of a mmoth in the beak of an owl?
Who has it and who doesn't? . . .
owenwyke.bsky.social
Lots of good people have been saying stuff like, "Fight venomous people with unconditional love." I disagree. Love is an affirming hug, not a lesson.

Venemous people need to learn consequences. Sending them love tells them chiefly that what they are doing works, in furthering their agenda.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Someone saying hello to you and then being delighted about it should make you happy.

Not guns.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Guns should not make you happy.

Giving someone something nice that they didn't ask for should make you happy.
owenwyke.bsky.social
Oddly thoughtful while looking at a sky partly filled with heavy clouds.

Why are people not talking about things like THIS?
owenwyke.bsky.social
I've never liked plot and I've often said that I find it to be the one aspect of the 'writing craft' that is dispensible. Character, language, narrative are all far more important. Give me all of these and no plot, and I'm fine . . . but Gladman, here, says things much better.
owenwyke.bsky.social
We need new scales.

New scales for everything.
owenwyke.bsky.social
In secret response to writer who wanted to know if any writer can 'write a book these days without using the f word' . . . well, if you mean characters speaking with characters, then my answer is No, I haven't so far . . . but if you mean narrative, that's something else I suppose.

But why fret?
owenwyke.bsky.social
Well! What a political turnaround! I didn't see that coming at all. Not one bit. Nope. I'm totally surprised.
owenwyke.bsky.social
. . . but if you'd asked about online research, on which I've wasted so much time, maybe I'd say . . . light bulb research?
owenwyke.bsky.social
Runic magic.

Totally useless.
owenwyke.bsky.social
If you're feeling bad but aren't feeling bad enough, you can always trust the news. Look at it, go ahead. Just take a good look at that stuff. Breathe it in deeply.
owenwyke.bsky.social
These days, when I cut a small paragraph, or a sentence, and everything is better for it, I feel better, myself. It's the reduction of breaths, you want them all smaller and smaller and smaller . . . especially if it comes down to just a little punctuation . . . better. That is all I want to be.