The Lies We Tell (and The Blanket Acceptance of Them)
"We're all such a pack of liars," he said at one point. "We go to some show that we think stinks and afterward we tell them 'Good show!' as if these people don't already know their show stinks. We lie to each other all the time."
He was right. We do constantly lie to each other and then we accept these lies because we're supposed to—as if by lying and accepting the bullshit, we are providing grease to the friction of social grace. We lie and acquiesce to the lie because it makes us feel better.
Is It Art or Is It Competitive Therapy? The Paradox of the Slam
I love poetry. My wife is a poet. I love listening to poets recite their poetry. I have amazing memories of Marc Smith thrilling me with his almost preacher-like facility with the spoken word.
I am frequently torn by the child he birthed: Slam Poetry.
Andy disassembled his weapon with lighting speed. He packed it away in the black backpack made specifically for a weapon of this sort. He bolted to the roof access door as fast as his little, chubby legs would carry him. He made his way through the condo/office building stairwell without being noticed just as he had done on his way up. Andy was good at his job. And for a nine-month-old baby, he was really good at it.