writing
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Watching David Lynch’s first film, Eraserhead, in a 1980s vintage West Los Angeles theatre was a paradigm shifter. For a twenty-something from the rural American South, a heightened sense of boundless creativity soaked into me in that threadbare movie house and changed my newly acquired urban trajectory. Lynch’s connection with the fecund space of infinity
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Underwater silence. I know the sound from being tethered to the bottom of a lake once but now it’s directly threatening. The rush of fear constricting my chest yanks the vagus nerve running up my neck. Too close to the reptilian connection that hearing has to survival, my amygdala gets defensive and rakes a dull
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On Catching the Ephemeral with the “I”. As a writer I constantly get prompts from the exterior world that it might be worth my while to take my creative output seriously. I should keep notes, I hear from my muse. If I go for a walk, say, along the base of a mountain like last
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If I felt that there were any other way I would take that route in a minute. It turns out, though, that saying the thing that is underneath all the subterfuge is actually what’s easier in the long run. The Realm of Possibility Underneath the things I’d rather say because they are what I am
Auguste Hill 