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dreamerswell
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Name: Dave Hart...
Country: United States
State: Oregon
Metro: Portland
Gender: Male
Interests: music, coffee, art, books, movies, cooking, Canada, elbows and fingertips, black tea, red wine, old photos, the next 10 years.
Expertise: I made a new zine ...do you want it?
Occupation: Executive
Industry: Art
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
11/5/2002
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| I remembered the way you looked in the flickering light of a stovetop flame, though it was a moment we never shared. It was something I imagined; like leaving the city would have solved everything. There was this night, see, the night we got off the bus at the wrong stop and wondered thought the overgrowth near the highway the night we talked about life in the country. My mind was a tangle of pea shoots and pumpkin vines when you kissed me. But soon even those plants would be as dead as the houseplants that sat brown and dying on my windowsill. | | |
| My chapbook entitled Death Of The Dream Singer and The Golden Days Of Missing You is finished and has been sent away for publishing consideration. There is a slim chance it will actually get published and if it does not I plan to self publish it and distribute it this fall, stay in touch if you are interested. | | |
| The Death Of The Dream Singer, and The Golden Days Of Missing You | | |
| Introducing
Solder Gun Standoff ( a story in fragments)
Souder Gun Standoff is a collection of fragments that combine to tell one cohesive story. The narration shift back and forth to tell the story of the author and the character he has created as well as providing introspective views into the author as he is examining the obvious similarities between author and character. The story shifts continually between the three tracks in which it is told but ultimately ties up (or is soldered together) to form one single idea.
(sample)
1:
There it had gone again, same shit different day. It was one of those drunks, the whiskey kind, it was the feeling that anything could happen but it would probably not. Of all the emotions possible it would probably end in some senseless from of destruction. To shoot out the TV to sink a ship on channel nine, it was them that gave away a Hawaiian cruse every winter and seemed, in doing so, to mock the cold stale interior of the living room. The coffee table showed no evidence of any consumption other than alcohol and tobacco. Tomorrow would be a hell of a day broken glass and television shopping.
2:
The lines between fiction and reality were blurred; a record you left beside my bed would become a book left on his table. This is how it would work. This was not important, however, to him, as he would realize nothing of how his reality was altered by certain private authors notes. With him it was different, years had piled up and the books had gathered dust. A necklace in a drawer now belonged there simply because it had always been there and he was not much for throwing things away.
4:
It was a perfect parody, we were happy people, we drank vodka on hidden beaches when we should have eaten oysters. But this was all in photographs now. Empty shoes had washed up on the beach and there were blackberry bushes on the edge of the woods. We would stay here in tents made of seaweed and tall grass, run on the beaches in the mornings, boil crabs at night over open flames. But this would be fiction, a lie we would tell the world and laugh about later. The next day I would wake up hung-over and stumble home thought the town smelling of sea salt and dirt.
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