What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.

While in the midst of playing solitaire
(with losing outcome foreordained
after a couple moves), I became gripped
with combinations predicated on thirteen
ranks each of four French suits subsumed:
Clubs (♣), Diamonds (◊), Hearts (♥) And Spades (♠).

I  totalled a sum of fifty two variations.

If one of four possible draws for king available,
(which could be either Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts,
and Spades), that would automatically determine
every subsequent card diminishing in rank
topped off with an Ace.

Please feel welcome to challenge my presumption
within a dark alley late at night.

The above calculation logical since a standard deck
(not surprisingly) comprises 52 cards
(4 suits of 13).

Each suit (Clubs ♣, Diamonds ◊, Hearts ♥, Or Spades ♠)
contains an Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
Jack, Queen, And King.

There are no duplicates.

No Google search yielded results
asper this nagging question, but unexpectedly
whet an immediate appetite describing
the history of plain old vanilla playing cards.

Said legacy encompassing the four suits
i.e. collectively represent four elements
(wind, fire, water, and earth),
the seasons, and cardinal directions.

They represent struggle of opposing forces
for victory in life. Each suit on a deck of cards
represents four major pillars of economy
during middle ages: Heart represented
Church, Spades represented  military,
clubs represented agriculture, and
Diamonds represented merchant class.

King of hearts is the only king minus a mustache.

Face cards (Jacks, Queens, And Kings) so called
"face cards" because the cards
have pictures of their names.

One-eyed Royals (the Jack of spades
and Jack of Hearts often called "one-eyed Jacks"),
and King of Diamonds drawn in profile;
therefore, these cards
commonly referred to as "one-eyed".

The King of Spades ♠ ranks
as one of three immovable Fixed Cards
in the Cards of Life and resides
in the Crown Line of both Master Scripts
(Spirit and Life).

Said card, in situ, the most powerful card
in the deck.

A Jack or Knave is a playing card,
which in traditional French and English decks,
pictures a man in traditional or historic
aristocratic dress generally associated
with Europe of the 16th or 17th century.

The usual rank of a Jack, within its suit,
plays as if it were an 11
(that is, between the 10 and the Queen).

Charming, resourceful, personable and easy-going
best defines Jack of Spades.

Blessed with a creative mind,
this one-eyed Jack of the deck manifests
jais nais sais quois salient scrutiny
jest via virtue of lightness of his being.

The four card suits that we know today —
Hearts, Diamonds, Spades, and Clubs
(rooted in French design) circa 15th century,
but the idea of card suits is much older.

The written history of card playing
began during 10th-century Asia,
from either China or India,
as a gambling game.

That idea found its way to ancient Muslim world
before 14th century.

The oldest known deck of Muslim playing cards,
like the playing cards of today,
had four suits: Coins, Cups, Swords, and Polo Sticks.

These decks of cards then showed up
in southern Europe, but because polo sticks
were unfamiliar to Europeans, that suit
eventually changed to Scepters, Batons,
or Cudgels (a type of club).
In France, Parisian cardmakers
settled on Spades, Hearts, Clubs, and Diamonds
as the four suits.  
    
The first adaptations of German card suits
constituted Leaves, Hearts, and Hawk Bells
(Acorns rounded out German suit).

Considering cards strictly made
for French upper class, tis little surprise
cardmakers chose expensive
Diamonds over common Acorns.

The French advanced card making utilizing
flat, single-color silhouettes for suits.

These images created with simple stencils,
made manufacture easy, quick, and inexpensive.

Innovative new, cheaper cards
flooded the market in the 15th century,
became popular in England,
and then traveled to America.    

Contrary to contemporary belief four suits
meant to represent four seasons inaccurate.

Equally questionable 52 cards linkedin
to 52 weeks of the year.

Many numerological and religious
explanations asper composition  
analogous to deck of cards postulated,
but these explanations purportedly created
ex post facto, perhaps to give deck-holders
a solid argument, that role deck of cards
maintained existed other than for gambling.

The Profitis Ilias was snorting the exokartic energies through the sinkholes that filled the thickness of the Arms of Christi and the Souls of Trouvere, from Leros came Ezpatkul with the Gerakis for the closing of the Codex of Raedus. Stratonice was dressed for spring with Persephone for the amendment of the wind tunnel so that everyone would go back to the esplanade at the top, where Vernarth was inspiring all the children of the Codex of Raedus-Vernacentricus-Profitis Ilias. Zefian brought the Toxota and Pezhetairoi arrows, they were sovereign moldy points of the Bronze tips of the Taxota Archers and the Falangists. That in turn from the high sky formed a great pinwheel when from the great dimension they shone from the flat equinoctial sky, bumping the chins of Kaitelka that the Parthenon dealer lost, that they rang the great bronze pineapple, kilometers in length forming the makro koelum from Patmos; with vertices of the Pythagorean canon of Polykleitos. A large horizontal Lecedemonia “V” was visible from Aorion's falling acrotera, projected in a copper mega bolt coming from Betelgeuse's armpit, and forming a Barnard looped sidereal Vee, fired by the hunter Aorion from his constellation. This would be an architectural last, and Pythagorean canon-mathematical for purposes proportional to the Mandragoron. They fell from the four arrows that Zefian launched, from Crete, since they were approaching the contravention of Apollo, and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points. This is how they began with the first two sagites that are placed on the arc string, each one belonging to north-south trajectories and the other two that once again clashed with the eastern arc, to shoot the east-west arrows with limits of magnetism. southern. Three arrows are deposited in the canon of Polykleitos, and in the reticulum of the Pleiades that Aorion pursued. The points of the Taxotas were approaching with the North: Vóreios (Boreal de Zefian) South: Nótos (Austral de Borker), then Pezhetairoi: West: Dyticá (Sunset of Leiak) East: Aftó (Equinoctial of Kaitelka). The Codex came to an end in an aureole of the Melismatic hymn, within a lyric towards the rebellious polis of the Hidro Saltinbanqui, who listed their antiphons on the thirty-three codes, embodied in green fields and Lavender fields, where they exhorted the Lotions to stand until death, clinging where kings come down from their altars, under the ultimatum to celebrate the feast in the Persephone canals, pouring out the mouths of those who have perished in the desert of lyrical abstention, and wine in the cruel kindnesses of satiating her after falling into the arms of lavender.

Wonthelimar climbed up the caliginous air differential that emanated from the Basilisk's snout, which surrendered to the propagation of the ascent through the firebreak that took him to the top to meet Vernarth and Zefian, along with all the Sibyls who were also levitated towards the meeting. of the Fourth Arrow. Lochnith, Sibyl Herophila, Mardiath, Elpenor, and Vlad Strigoi were featured, all of them joined to the Phalanx of Arbela, leading to the restitution of the belligerent site, along with a great compacted mass of citizens who heard from all over the Aegean world and surroundings. The bay of Skalá was full of ships that poetized in the roadstead with intense poetry, before a new and heroic rebirth of the bones of the fallen in the transversal battles, each one carrying in their hands a bunch of lavenders, for the brave hearts that they wanted to be reborn in the bones, towards the arrival of Zefian and the raising of all the panoplies united in his bones, as a whole taking over the Patmian island. They did not let go of the bundle, but until they released the last momentum of repose, to activate the beauty of being all united in the building of the Megaron Mandragoron.

The men became more men, and the children became men, their wives were legitimate invincible forces as if they were Moiras burnishing Panoplias that rudimentary the most incomprehensible noises, until they awakened from the chin to those who had difficulty reaching the top to renew their bones Who, full of death, retired from their enslavement. This will be a truth, which was hiding behind the falsehood of a contingent greater than all the archaic invasions of foreign civilizations hungry for wisdom. Everything is great before the small because everyone wants a hero who dies and is reborn again, the brave one dies twice and is reborn twice before the arms of Vernarth, the pain is three times greater than the relief of a mother who longs for the return alone of one of their own after each battle, by wandering wastelands of enemies who dream of wanting the legitimate escape signals of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who made their crying and howling that they cannot console themselves. Poverty is tinged with gold, and those who need a similar shelter will be the object of their own unity as they are prisoners of ill-fated wealth. The Hoplite could have a parallel from the ninth book of the Iliad, towards an Arete or courage of his brave cop that filled him with branches from the spray of every morning when he was pubescent, with the Agathos or Courage, which led them as great splendors through the tube or wind tunnel rising at the speed of the Lambda, in the notch of the Lacedaemonian fold in its bronze duplicates Kardiá or Hoplite hearts. The shields were crowded upon the awakening of the same gods of Olympus, all sleeping together the same mirage during a Long Night that would rescind the power of each member and fabulous lost, before the new Megaron superior to Olympus itself, presided over by Vernarth, and assisting also Zeus; this time carrying an oak in his hand and a Dorus, detached from its rays of a beautiful Death that is reborn in Patmos, carrying in the other Hands the bunch of Lacedaemonian Lavenders, solving them from the Trésas or doubts of facing the sun of victory in both eyes divided, the heterochrome with the beautiful green green of Alexander the Great and the Lavender of Vernarth from Lacedaemon, providing the Demiourgía with his brother Etrestles, with the power or full Aristokracia of the moving spinners of Ezpatkul and Stratonice, for the purpose of unleashing the wind tunnel with the Gerakis from Leros, sharpening with remnants of Miletos, already degraded to aristocrats submerged in the dawn of the Alikantus and Kanti ridges of Crete, who still dwelt restlessly with their wounds on their backs, taking with them robes from the laurel forest of Matico and Sauco, who wrapped themselves on the perches that fringed on their heads to welcome them, and round them with some dark orange blossoms, which They muttered between their gleaming incisors in bronze greaves, woven into their corselets that continued to walk the wounds on their backs that pointed and implored Aorion, recesses in aristocratic awards for the Hetairoi hall that awaited them, very close. Vernarth rehearsing his Himation on his way to the Seventh Paradise.

Philoxenic appetence
                                Misplaced
Disproportionate benevolence
                                               Dissipate
Myself: an object, given away
A transient drifter with always somewhere to stay


Exuberant sorrow ever-wishing to deject
                    Distortion
Deception duplicates
A heart burnt black
Focussed on the lacking, unable to bounce back


Mouths to feed
Needy hands grapple to extract
No fact needed
Smoky contortion
Inhaled greedily

Ready for the downfall
Open to the wind
Upward spirals shy away from the world they crave
Mischievous nymphs dance merrily on a stage,
Unmade
Then lay down to cradle their babes


Slaves to the slovenly
Behaviour of unrest
I know they’re trying hard but is it their best?
Sing a song of sixpence, your fingers in my pie
Life is not serious
We’re all destined to die
                 High.

The best things in life are free, a sunny day, you and I, lying backs to the sky,  thinkin of what we have and what we had, and what we will, a smile creeps to my face as I look at you and say

Chorus:
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you

The clock tics and tocs, together we walk, sit and talk, time passes by,
My mind flies the sun lives and dies to rise again and again and again.
Like the breaths we take and the choices we make I’m gonna jump in the lake that is your soul, swim through our lives and dive into our dreams.  Heaven is on earth today, because..

Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you

The good Dr said:  “Today you are you, that is truer than true.  There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”  He was right as can be, like a snowflake your unique and one of a kind, The duplicates can me made night and day to say what you say and walk like you walk but no one can do what you do and i say:

Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you


Like a rusted root you send me on my way, the brightest part of any day you add the color to my photographs and the reality to my dreams.  You fill my sails with wind and light the way through my darkest nights.  I lay alone and awake and I think:

Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you
Hey you, Roses are red, violets are blue I just wanna be with you


Winter fades and summer springs, just long enough for the leaves to fall and bring me it all, your hand in mine, and like the seasons we weather it all and while all the colors change the constant remains the same,

I just wanna be with you.

Inhale,
exhale,
and inhale again.

Blood rises and quickens.
Rushing,
like the resin abducting my oxygen
and holding it hostage.
The smoke before me
that twists and dances and
duplicates,
making love to the air.

I look at these strands
past a foggy haze of uncertainty,
wondering how they fit together
even better than we did
when they are not
tangible bodies.

The strands, they don't hold a heart or listen
to each other breathe as they fall asleep.
And I wonder how this smoke,
how these **** dead wisps,
love each other better than
we did.

wine
cheese
beef. good beef.     (i am good, i am good)
things that get better with age.

antique cars
comics
old coins
things that increase in value with time.
rarities

i am rare.
even antique cars
have their duplicates
out there
but i am rare.
(i am the only me.)
i have to tell myself
this list.
there are things that get better
i'm worthless
only to me
only for now

leather gets softer, suppler.
fruit gets juicier, better, with the age of the tree.
a pile of compost, nothing but trash (worthless, worthless)
biodegrades (slowly, slowly)
—soil richer, plants grow stronger.

repeat after me:
*i am rare...

I want love,
I need love,
Where is love....

They tell you love is in family,
But they hate...
They tell you love is in you,
In order to find it,
you have to look in the crevasses of your heart,
But within you ,
It's reenactments of a ****** scene ,

Tell me again ,
Can't you answer my question?
Where is love ?
I'm looking for love ,
Love can you see me ?

You want love from me ,
I'm not earthly ,
I can't give you what you need..
My love can't even nuture me,
When I'm in time of need..
How can I learn to love you,
When I'm half loving me...

I create duplicates of paper hearts,
Made up of broken sea shells ..
Forgive me if I'm distant but loving,
I'm convinced I need help...

The past is such an interesting notion.
Events and moments transpire.
Then seemingly.
Vanish.
Yet we collect them.
Hold them close.
Or far.
Attaching some form of meaning to them.
These memoirs can guide.
Inhibit.
Transfix.
Suffocate.
And any number of other descriptions to wield.
In many ways.
The time after.
Are just duplicates of the latter.
With placed meaning that's "different".
Archived seperately.
So much irrelevant information.
What can our history books truly retain when perspective is so...
Objective.
We are a society hell bent on understanding what was.
Constantly walking past what is.
And lamenting what will be.
Making it truly a wonder.
That any of us.
Are present.
At all.

Thoughts create separate realities to foster their ideas.
Water droplets exploding into fragmented molecules,
Hundreds of liquid duplicates based on the derivative.
Worlds implode, brilliantly crafted glittering jewels.
Shards resonate in darkness and float along a current
Far reaching, swiftly flowing, clawing at your mind.
It's a never ending flow breaching into many forms,
Encapsulated in a pristine visage none of us can find.

But the source is never the answer, only a beginning
To yet another story that never received an ending.
A cyclical experience that helped to break the circle
When it found itself too proud to continue bending.
Look within yourself when you ask all the questions
Realize that you have wisdom beyond your sight.
An infinite amount of knowledge with which to be
A candle amidst a world full of so much night.

I’m Sorry

You are my most regrettable sin,
Forever with you, I shall sit alone…
In a field full of fractured seeds, waiting to be sown.
For you, I will grow a thicker skin.
Just so that with you, I can suffer through this grin.

My father took me to a circus.
It was one of those old fashioned ones. They’d used animals, still.
I’d seen that animal within its cage, its disposition all too similar to my own
It mattered not if I was onstage, or offstage.
There was not a moment where you or I did not ‘cheat out’.

Stage left.
Stage right.
Back Stage.
Onstage.

You and I were the clowns who ‘played’ everywhere.
For I, the jester was the only personality that I could encage
It didn’t matter in which way that they would stare
As long as my smile could be seen, it didn’t matter if it was more
than I could bear.

In my act of selfishness, It was you that I had made
Because I could no longer wear this jester’s mask alone.
And for this sin, I know that I shall never atone
I stole you away from your promenade…
Peeled you from a novel that was never mine.
Brought you into my life, where you were never meant to shine.

But I couldn’t bear it…
This biological function
The need to never be ‘alone’
If I had only known… god, if I had only known.
That my idea of strength was ‘sad’
And incomplete, like a forgotten draft upon a sketch pad.

Those childhood memories could never resonate within you, nor I.
We were xerox copies, printed within a black room
Duplicates, whose polaroid had bled, stained with obsidian dye.
I made you with the selfish request- to pick up the mask when I could no longer bear it
‘Please protect me’, I’d said. What a horrible sin that I commit.

For I should have known. Even ‘good’ memories are made at the expense of others.
The animals who put on their show, only to lay, as if dead within their cells.
The young actors and actresses, who will never again see their mothers.
To the ring leader, who wonders… Why does he deserve this hell?
Finally, that smiling jester… Whose world as long since lost all of its colors.

that clenched another win (yahoo)
jimmied today August 15th, 2022 single handedly
just before the crack of dawn
with both hands tied behind my back,
and a blindfold worn over my eyes.

While in the midst of playing solitaire
(with losing outcome foreordained
after a couple moves), I became gripped
with combinations predicated on thirteen
ranks each of four French suits subsumed:
Clubs (♣), Diamonds (◊), Hearts (♥) And Spades (♠).

I  totalled a sum of fifty two variations.

If one of four possible draws for king available,
(which could be either Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts,
and Spades), that would automatically determine
every subsequent card diminishing in rank
topped off with an Ace.

Please feel welcome to challenge my presumption
within a dark (and stormy) alley late at night.

The above calculation logical since a standard deck
(not surprisingly) comprises 52 cards
(4 suits of 13).

Each suit (Clubs ♣, Diamonds ◊, Hearts ♥, Or Spades ♠)
contains an Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,
Jack, Queen, And King.

There are no duplicates.

No Google search yielded results
asper this nagging question, but unexpectedly
whet an immediate appetite describing
the history of plain old vanilla playing cards.

Said legacy encompassing the four suits
i.e. collectively represent four elements
(wind, fire, water, and earth),
the seasons, and cardinal directions.

They represent struggle of opposing forces
for victory in life. Each suit on a deck of cards
represents four major pillars of economy
during middle ages: Heart represented
Church, Spades represented  military,
clubs represented agriculture, and
Diamonds represented merchant class.

King of hearts is the only king minus a mustache.

Face cards (Jacks, Queens, And Kings) so called
"face cards" because the cards
have pictures of their names.

One-eyed Royals (the Jack of spades
and Jack of Hearts often called "one-eyed Jacks"),
and King of Diamonds drawn in profile;
therefore, these cards
commonly referred to as "one-eyed".

The King of Spades ♠ ranks
as one of three immovable Fixed Cards
in the Cards of Life and resides
in the Crown Line of both Master Scripts
(Spirit and Life).

Said card, in situ, the most powerful card
in the deck.

A Jack or Knave is a playing card,
which in traditional French and English decks,
pictures a man in traditional or historic
aristocratic dress generally associated
with Europe of the 16th or 17th century.

The usual rank of a Jack, within its suit,
plays as if it were an 11
(that is, between the 10 and the Queen).

Charming, resourceful, personable and easy-going
best defines Jack of Spades.

Blessed with a creative mind,
this one-eyed Jack of the deck manifests
jais nais sais quois salient scrutiny
jest via virtue of lightness of his being.

The four card suits that we know today —
Hearts, Diamonds, Spades, and Clubs
(rooted in French design) circa 15th century,
but the idea of card suits is much older.

The written history of card playing
began during 10th-century Asia,
from either China or India,
as a gambling game.

That idea found its way to ancient Muslim world
before 14th century.

The oldest known deck of Muslim playing cards,
like the playing cards of today,
had four suits: Coins, Cups, Swords, and Polo Sticks.

These decks of cards then showed up
in southern Europe, but because polo sticks
were unfamiliar to Europeans, that suit
eventually changed to Scepters, Batons,
or Cudgels (a type of club).
In France, Parisian cardmakers
settled on Spades, Hearts, Clubs, and Diamonds
as the four suits.  
    
The first adaptations of German card suits
constituted Leaves, Hearts, and Hawk Bells
(Acorns rounded out German suit).

Considering cards strictly made
for French upper class, this little surprise
cardmakers chose expensive
Diamonds over common Acorns.

The French advanced card making utilizing
flat, single-color silhouettes for suits.

These images created with simple stencils,
made manufacture easy, quick, and inexpensive.

Innovative new, cheaper cards
flooded the market in the 15th century,
became popular in England,
and then traveled to America.    

Contrary to contemporary belief four suits
meant to represent four seasons inaccurate.

Equally questionable 52 cards linkedin
to 52 weeks of the year.

Many numerological and religious
explanations asper composition  
analogous to deck of cards postulated,
but these explanations purportedly created
ex post facto, perhaps to give deck-holders
a solid argument, that role deck of cards
maintained existed other than for gambling.

You're a locked door with the sign 'do not enter,'
but there are duplicates of the key you lent out once.
The sky becomes a blanket, and the sun is no longer out;
and strangers come through the door -gone by morning.

There's only so much company that can be found in an empty bottle,
so you make it two empty bottles, and grab an empty hand
and dance under the flawed moon,
and like an hourglass fall slowly into familiarity
-by morning you're left with the same empty feeling
(and a terrible headache.)

They come waltzing in uninvited,
friends of the unconscious mind,
and enemies to the sober.

You're a locked door with the sign 'do not enter,'
if I was offered the key I would not take it.
I patiently knock.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

Timeless fashion is part of Debbie Hawkins seasonal home decor.

When the Etcetera collection arrives, her living and dining rooms become showrooms, a place where by appointment women can choose classic fashion, well made from high end fabrics, "things you turn to for years."

"We bridge the gap with versatile selections," said Hawkins, an Etcetera sales consultant. "Pieces that bring something special to a wardrobe."

The unique, sell-from-home business us part of the Carlisle Etcetera trademark, a New York based brand that offers women an opportunity to become entrepreneurs. Consultant/stylists are trained to guide fashion choices.

"I had raised my kids and wanted to do something interesting," Hawkins said, "Etcetera came out at the top of the list. I could work at my own pace and hours."

Four times a year Hawkins attends a fashion show, where she and 100 other consultants have a chance to meet designers, look at quality fabrics and learn about techniques used to make the Etcetera collections.

Ordering clothes online isn't the same.

"Pictures don't translate to what we have seen before the trunk show boxes arrive," said Hawkins. "We receive upward of 300 items. We talk with each customer and they get to see in person what is available."

Clients are either referred to Etcetera stylists by friends or through the www.etcetera.com website. They are directed to the consultant closest to them; some of Hawkins' customers drive to Wichita Falls from Oklahoma.

A few have a hard time committing to an Etcetera trunk show because "they feel a little intimidated."

"Once they see it's a very relaxed environment it's much easier," Hawkins explained.

Two appointments are made with each customer, one to check their existing wardrobe for what may work well with Etcetera selections and another to try on what they've picked. Hawkins adapted a bedroom as a dressing room.

"One of the biggest pluses is knowing our customers so well," said Melissa Prigmore, Hawkins' associate assistant. "They know they won't be wearing duplicates of what they've seen at Lord and Taylor."

According to Hawkins, Etcetera's high quality skirts, trousers, blouses, jackets, coats and accessories are priced in the "Neimans and Nordstrom range."

"These are the kind of clothes you don't bury in the back of the closet and never see after the first wear," Hawkins pointed out. "Comfortable style and fabric, they get brought out every season."

Clients can also turn to Hawkins and Prigmore for advice on style, color and fit.

"I'm not good at editing myself on fashion decisions," said Hawkins. "It's nice to have someone else tell you what they think."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Just how long must one decay.
Before enlightment knocks.
There must be a more sensible way.
Than merely staring at a sign.
"Under Construction".
Filling up the time with duplicates.
Hanging them to corresponding sites.
One for growing up.
A few for responsibilties.
Or just one to cover life In general.
Would it seem too ironic not to even finish the sign..
Or maybe just pesimism.
There are just too many negative adjectives to choose from.
With hands stained red from paint and blood.
One would be hard pressed to touch anything more.
Perhaps this is epifany in the making.
But to reach out to turn the pages
Means the story has yet to conclude.
So does remaining immobile.
Strip away existence.
Or just stall the darkness a bit more..
Either way.
The protagonist still draws breathe.
It is just a matter of how many more pages.
Until the last is drawn.

Plato, Socrates, Glaucon
sat and talked
about a chair and bed,
Discussing
What was real and
Was not.

"The originals
Are safe
With
God."

"Anything after's
Imitation;
The Carpenter
Creates a representation
Of the Real
But never duplicates,
And in some way
Honors the Original."

"The problem lies
With poets whose ideas stray
In artful Imitation,
Sort of a third-hand
Bit of Gossip
About Truth."

"In a perfect world,
Original thoughts
Exist only the mind of God
And artisans create
One-off visions of
The Prime."

"To stay near Truth,
Let's banish poets
And their poems
And create the
Ideal Republic."

then ee cummings
sauntered in -
said - boys
i see a universe
next door
Lets g o o o o!

Glaucon shook his head,
Took *******'s arm
And followed Dada
Off the stage.

I saw them, I sw**r
Sometimes they were in line,
Sometimes scattered everywhere

I saw them around me
They were on the ground
Leave them alone and
They'll never make a sound

Touch them the wrong way
And if they’re close, they’ll crumble
In their downfall
In the end, they'll always lose their humble

I can’t see the difference
Is it just me or they are all the same
They’re just clones of each other
I can feel their pain

I couldn’t tell them apart
Without my fingertips
They’re all duplicates
A species of a looped never-ending clips

What if
I am just as bare,
Another domino
I can’t recognise my own reflection
So I guess I’ll never know.

how can anyone
in a world filled with
                               duplicates
ever be an
               original

If you look over your shoulder,
you can catch the deep sunset's orange
and violet rays in the crisp, autumn leaves
as they prepare to gracefully fall from heaven's trees
and on to people's humble feet.

If you trace your hands over the
lovely spines
of worn, bent paperback books
you might hear the faint murmurs of
tiny excited character kinsmen,
the heroes and heroines of lost worlds, conquered
universes, and empty bleak, realities.

If you steal a quiet glance at the
person sitting at the table across from yours,
leaning on an arm, hair ruffled
in a dodgers hat, a sweater radiating warmth
and loneliness,
cradling a steaming mug of black coffee,
you'd realize that they are forever willingly
waiting for someone precious to appear
in their lives.

If you somehow find a clean, unpolished mirror
in a case carrying abundant duplicates
of filtered cameras, if you can find the courage
to bring the light up to your face, and if you trace
the lines, freckles, and pinches of red you discover
scattered throughout,
you would know that you are utterly beautiful.

If you hesitate before taking a single step
in your daily routine, if you stop and open
your mind before the flow of words can
overwhelm the space before you, if you can sing
to yourself rather than console a lost soul's cries,
if you can paint specks of color on your fingertips
and draw a smiling, gray sky,

you would find yourself
cradling the midnight blue, obnoxious,
but so sweetening and simple world,
as if it were a lost child who formed fists
to hide its crystal tears...

as if it built a well defined, unyielding
shield, to suffer the deep marks
left behind by the blows
of an insurmountable sadness.

Not the heart that beats in the heat of desert milk!

Not the milk that duplicates and does not sink into searing sand!

Please! I see it now! The Pale Sun rising above Klee Temple— inspired by lines of dread. The maddening has begun!

We shall rendezvous with the camel spiders, those who pince at the moon in chambers of the dead.

The bones break
The fleshes bake
The horror around
Am nailed to the ground

The filthy beings
Never before seen
Chant my name
Playing their game

My hands tied
My eyes desparately cried
My egos lied
My conscious died

I see myselfs all around
Duplicates of me surround
Identical, hard to make
Whose real, whose fake

More noise in my ears
Letting go off my fears
Brushing off my final tears
Same dream over the years

The days get shorter
The nights stretch longer
My inner soul gets buried
In the darkness, when carried

Gloomy begs under my eyes
My conscious console's with lies
I try to forget my dreams
Yet, I hear their siren, screams...


©sim

I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.

We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.



©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration.

Words are just carbon duplicates
of intertwined shapes to insinuate a specific instruction

Trying to make sense of it all, intricate complications seem to follow the very next sound

Wrapped in their secular meaning and internal definitions, we don't know the true pieces inside them

Does it mean light, dark, weird, crazy, confused, red, green, or gold?

Left, right, or upside down, who knows.
Its a guessing game of sorts. What do you see? Is it the same as me?

Linguistics interrupting unusual interceptions of crossing patterns within mixed mediums

See Jack Run, Red Fish, Blue Fish or 1,2,3
What does this all mean? Is it all free?

Signs of simple or insane complexities
surrounding mental restraints.
Turning the page, what do we see next?

Oh ok, now I get it !! Letters of different languages placed within the confines of a verbal, visual, or audible prison

"Call me Ishmael"

Do they create a melody?
Such monotony in the duplicates of delirium
A charade that tainted the soul of creators,
As many they inspired;
Blissfully they clasped the canvas,
Embracing traces of putrid ink stains.
Covering with scarlet paint amongst the burnt umber,
Repressing sentiments of enamorment,
Fingers clamped, quill in hand.

The master found itself overwhelmed
By the cacophony of brush strokes.
Deafening tones puncturing, the bespoke rhythms of droplets
Desecrating the workplace.

A heavy haven, hove from heaven,
Fragments of brittle stories
In its somber glory;
Teetered, tattered rags, rig the template
Spread out in callous allegory.
Amongst gardens of ebony, ivory, mahony
The sonorous cask speaking in gibberish atony.

Do they play that lustrous sound?
Review the mouth of the cunning vertebrae,
The effigies of landscapes.

Abstractions of words clad the canvas
In amorphous blobs, strung strings
Of thin inked lines piled amongst the bars.
A quintuplet of harmony barring noise
The resonance of the feather carressing the leaves.

So forth, the master drew his last stroke
The composer's œuvre of bleeding, soundless words
The chords of compromise between creasing,
Heaping canvases,
On hope of the sleeping crowds
To reverberate its symphony once more.

If friends should describe to me.
What they love should be?
You are the face of love.

From several men's dreams to the happiness they seek.
You are the face of love.

Every word they describe.
I stood their beaming with pride.
Cause I can gladly say you're mine.
Cause you are the face of love.

And if they only knew you the way I do.
They be seeking duplicates of you.
For you are the face of love.

I could placed you on a poster.
I would be impressed.
Cause others would seek you out.
Just to know what love's about?