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Responses to Naomi Rose's Challenge to Write Long(er) Sentences
Challenge to Write Long Entries : Response by Perica Cesko

Challenge to Write Long: Response by Perica Cesko

San Francisco, California / USA

Naomi Rose comments: An amazing and beautiful soul piece, very internal and without exterior reference, and yet so present and available to the writer's own experience that it becomes mine, and I find myself hanging on every word so that her discoveries can trigger and echo my own.

I couldn't recite the fervor of the feeling among the dwellers of that stupendous cove; stairs, creaking, wooden walls damp with soul, the love of ages emanating from the ceiling and the floor, and I couldn't, I wouldn't, I was so small compared to everything around; the supple commodity of noise, soft with love and knowledge, and wanting, tickling us, to come out and mingle, and dance, and speak ourselves out, out of our dungeon; and I found another way to belong, to present the gift of presence to them, to myself, to the life, just because, and I followed my gut, and followed my feeling, but, I came upon a wall, a wall that stood firm and tall as the grandest monument to ego that ever was, and I muttered to them and myself without a voice: how menial the obstacle is when met with love, the love of loving for love herself, for her to continue, to go on, to be; my markers and edges and borders vanished for eternity which lasted but a second and I came back to be faced by the wall, the tall wall of my own wanting, of my own creation, for their amusement; I so loved that second of eternity, I emblazoned the feeling of it, to not forget, to embrace me whenever I wanted it, again, again, and again, but it vanished, like the wall before which it appeared, and vanished like the wall itself when it appeared, and dismantled the veil as I loved, loved, and loved; memory is menial, too; the stream of melody from my impoverished canal is aghast at the cities I've built inside myself, the labyrinths of power and security, all gray and dry, begging to be let to die, to crumble to the ground, to the ground of my being, to the bottom of my soul, where they again enter the stream, the stream of life, of love, of being, of giving, of the glowing Suns and Moons and Stars, to become new, to become creative again, to feel alive, to be useful, to simply be, moving, in everything; I lost that day, for I never spoke, never shared, never uttered, never showed the honor I felt, the reverence my insides trembled with, the love they tickled out of my center, the joy that rushed through my being — no, I never uttered, any; I must be enamored with this passive crawl, slow and heavy, hungry and alone, but no, not for long, for I feel the sea of impatience within myself churning, calamity forming, I'm building my own demise, my own crackdown and my own rise; the fervor now is bliss, I shall care for everyone with an open hand and a true voice, of a simple word, without need for elaborate language, I shall, I shall, and I shall be; the wounded canons of my past will no longer judge, they will love, they will spew gentleness, unashamed, open, fully there, for others, giving, teaching, honoring, and blasting joy through the cities, through the streams, into the centers of my brothers, and my sisters; I shall be that which I feel. •

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