The ball slid down the smooth surface and slammed into the pins, Flying off of their positions, they keeled into each other, slamming around in the niche in which they were set. He threw his hands up in the air, grinning as he turned to his friends.There was nobody else who got strikes.
Andrea Grison. Tanto tempo fa. Martina Crasso. Togliti gli occhiali. Infanzia.
quanti cinema noi tre assieme…film penosi e fil buoni. Ma l’importante era sempre assieme.
Bowling sounds like fun. Maybe we should do it sometime. Like go out, yo know. It won’t be a date. No, not if you think so. :) Anyway, where was I? yes, the equation….
i havent been bowling in a really long time. the bowling alley at home has a lot of good (but not good FOR you) food. Like fried mushrooms. and Ive heard they have good breakfast. sometimes at night they have cosmic bowling.
We took the kids bowling. They have rails on the sides of the lanes to prevent the kids from getting gutter balls, to make it more fun for them. They improved my score by about sixty percent as well!
“Take the skinheads bowling, take ‘am bowling” is the refrain to an old song that damn if I can remember the name of the band. It was used in the opening credits to the Michael Moore film about the Columbine shootings – and is meant to show tolerance and acceptance even for those whose actions you despise. Win them over with honey and not veinegar. And it is insanely catchy as well.
Fuck bowling the shit that makes you mad, make you sad, make brag about what you have done and what you could have. the thing is that its only a ball and some fucking things which fall if you hit them, thats harsh and then we happy??? I dont get the art of bowling.
At a point in time you must crash
rolling and gaining momentum
when is the peak
when do you hit
energy radiates
throughout the explosion of life
pins of hope
pins of love
fall down
and sense of the mind submits to soul identity
At some point in time you realize you must crash
rolling and gaining momentum
when is the peak
when do you hit
energy radiates throughout the explosion of life
pins of hope
pins of love
fall down
and sense of the mind submits to the soul’s identity
Bowling is such a popular activity. In so many chick flicks and teenage drama reads, the main characters go bowling. A strike means so much and there’s a bunch of playful competition. The kids rejoice and all such.
I personally do not find so much joy in bowling. First of all, I suck at it. I hit the gutter almost every other time. I have no idea what’s the difference between the different-sized balls. And do we really have to wear the shoes? They’re uncomfortable and ugly. All in all, bowling is not my thing. I’d much prefer pool.
“Bowling,” he says, monotone, and Sanae smiles widely.
“Yeah, sure. It’ll be fun.”
Joshua stares at him for a long while before shaking his head. “I can’t ignore my duties for childish games,” he says, and Sanae scoffs.
“You would be the first one to ignore your duties for-”
“And neither can you,” Joshua continues, as if he never said anything. “Unless you intend to let both your reputation as CAT and your cafe fall apart.”
Sanae rolls his eyes, wondering how he’s dealt with this kid for so many years. “Josh, it’ll take an hour, and you forget that I don’t need to sleep.” He puts on his most convincing smile and holds out a hand. “Come on. Spare a little time to play in your garden. We could both use the break.”
Joshua looks at his hand as if it’s something poisonous. Sanae takes the hint and rubs the back of his neck. “…And this is how you propose we spend it.” It’s not a question.
“Yep,” Sanae says, simple as that, and Joshua sighs. “Bowling’s not that bad,” the Angel adds. “I’ll even let you use bumpers while you learn.”
Joshua gives him a glare that could probably kill any lesser being. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that- it’ll cost him later. But he raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.
Sanae can tell that Joshua, despite himself, is intrigued. Intrigued by any potentially interesting game, even if he considers this one below him (Sanae is reasonably sure he just doesn’t want to go through the okay-so-how-do-I-do-this stage in front of people). He has a pretty good feeling he’s going to get his way, and he hides his smile from the Composer, who isn’t looking, anyway.
I like bowling. The last time I remember Going bowling was in Germany with a school trip in Erefurt. I had a nasty accident on this trip and another girl was also involved. She beat me at bowling the night before the accident. Coincidence or not? But even stranger was my friend who deluged in the dark arts read my tarot reading and it contained the Death card. Spooky.
round round and round. the ball is my head, as I smash into the target. the pins are my goals. Do not fall into the gutter, where I will be living if I fail. Strike.
I went bowling once down on the alley by main street , It was rough , bowling, I didnt like it , I think bowling is one of those things you need to like , It feels a bit rednecky and flintstoney .
i’m sure you cheated
but that’s not what they saw
they saw a hero in you,
just because you could
strike down some pins
in some stroke of skill
( luck, i think
luck )
the word is heavy on my tongue
what did you have that i didn’t?
and why would i want something as useless as
a strike anyway?
would it keep my lights on,
would it keep my tap running,
would it bring a fullness to my stomach?
you had nothing but
self-fulfillment
you were nothing but
a bum who was good with
some pins
and i’m jealous
that you found something
( it’s better
than what i’ve got,
which is a decade-old spite )
you were a tattered hero
with no pennies to your name
when i had everything
and.
nothing.
bowling was my favorite activity with him.
he took me bowling two times a week, tuesdays and fridays
i used to wait for him those days and kept thinking about his words on the others
i’ve never been to one since
It’s a game I love ….it’s just the precision with which u throw the ball…. It’s a fun game with the family…the spins and the the technique……but somehow u haven’t been able to win the game u at some point just give up…..
I was playing a game,
a game of chance,
but when I rolled the ball,
it was at second glance,
i realized,
the pins were needles,
and the the ball was the moon,
I wondered when I’d wake up,
id hoped it was soon.
But it rolled,
then popped,
then my dream stopped
and i wondered if the moon hit the pins
would it explose into mars
would the light become fireworks
and turn into stars
How I’d wished this morning for failure, instead my life attends to bowling. Not the sport, no, recalling a scene of that would be too easy but rather the process of making a ceramic bowl part of Kizaemon’s bowl technique of colonial Japan, I seek to create the fragmented and ordinary pieces. The most ordinary exhibit the greatest mystery.
we haven’t had the pleasure, have we? my name is bowling, hippolyte bowling. my mother was french, you know. i’ve come here to buy your land and plant peaches. yes, peaches. i know you’ve grown olives here but i prefer the sweet kind of nature. maybe in two years, i’ll have about 200 trees and i will sell them to the neighbouring villages. yes, i intend to sell them even as far as the reaches of the sea.
“We’re just going bowling, mom.” I said through the phone, exasperated. I was /not/ getting a sermon — not when I was about to have the night of my life. “I’ll be back before eight, I promise.”
Click.
In the dark, I could feel Devon looking straight at me.
“Eight, really?” He was smiling, a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“Yes, why?” I said slyly. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“Well, of course not…” He said, “Except that it’s going to be a promise you’re going to break.”
Suddenly, I felt myself be pulled by his strong arms as he drew me in a long, sweet kiss. I felt like a marionette, pulled by strings — he was the master of my body. Once we started, I didn’t want to stop, — helpless yet content in this world — but he carefully removed my lips from his. I gasped.
“Now, that was just the first pin.” He said through a heavy breath. As I laughed excitedly, his fingers have already found their way inside my blouse. “I’m going in for a strike.”
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these ones – the real ones – inside of them down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even writing about it feels like mindless activity. Activitytivitytivitytivity. Next word please…
i love bowling. it is active and competitive and works wonders for date activity social events anf just plain fun. it will always be one of my funnest and wonderful energizing sport.
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these one – the real ones – inside of them down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these one – real ones – inside of them past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowler and knocking the physical ones down pushes the real ones inside of him past the layer of his psyche that can feel pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…
Ninepins was once considered a game of kings, but that time has long since passed. Well, maybe not passed so much as evolved. These days the king is just as likely to bowl with the severed head of his enemies as with a ball.
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowler and knocking the physical ones down pushes the real ones inside of him past the layer of his psyche that can feel pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. Next word please.
The time was running out, my last frame just a few seconds away. I grab the orange bowling ball in my hands, just one more strike.. i step towards the lane as the crowd waits silent in anticipation of a perfect game.
They should go bowling. Forgive me for feeling sore about it after all this time. Forgive me for not wanting he hear her name, either of their names. Forgive me for still feeling a little bit of pain. I’m only human. I’m just a fucking human.
I could see my neighbor standing here, white hat, sun glasses, big ol’ muffin top.
Blue eyes…
Aussie sun, back behind Her, white suit and green/yellow bow tie. My neighbor was 46 yrs old the last time I ever played against her; Bowels, Lawn Bowels. Agnate and undifferentiated I sunk in for her, fell for her.
She is Mrs Purcell now, and now we play side by side.
The ball slid down the smooth surface and slammed into the pins, Flying off of their positions, they keeled into each other, slamming around in the niche in which they were set. He threw his hands up in the air, grinning as he turned to his friends.There was nobody else who got strikes.
big and round. I suck at bowling.
Andrea Grison. Tanto tempo fa. Martina Crasso. Togliti gli occhiali. Infanzia.
quanti cinema noi tre assieme…film penosi e fil buoni. Ma l’importante era sempre assieme.
Bowling sounds like fun. Maybe we should do it sometime. Like go out, yo know. It won’t be a date. No, not if you think so. :) Anyway, where was I? yes, the equation….
i havent been bowling in a really long time. the bowling alley at home has a lot of good (but not good FOR you) food. Like fried mushrooms. and Ive heard they have good breakfast. sometimes at night they have cosmic bowling.
“Fuck it. Let’s go bowling Dude.” Ah, the charms of The Big Lebowski. Nothing can be so bad that a good roll won’t make it better. Abide.
We took the kids bowling. They have rails on the sides of the lanes to prevent the kids from getting gutter balls, to make it more fun for them. They improved my score by about sixty percent as well!
Tree little holes in a heavy ball
ten pins that maybe fall
all lot of fun with all your mates
even for one who waits…
“Take the skinheads bowling, take ‘am bowling” is the refrain to an old song that damn if I can remember the name of the band. It was used in the opening credits to the Michael Moore film about the Columbine shootings – and is meant to show tolerance and acceptance even for those whose actions you despise. Win them over with honey and not veinegar. And it is insanely catchy as well.
We sat at the counter, beers in hand looking as he shot straight through the split. All I could think was goddamn, I hate bowling.
Fuck bowling the shit that makes you mad, make you sad, make brag about what you have done and what you could have. the thing is that its only a ball and some fucking things which fall if you hit them, thats harsh and then we happy??? I dont get the art of bowling.
At a point in time you must crash
rolling and gaining momentum
when is the peak
when do you hit
energy radiates
throughout the explosion of life
pins of hope
pins of love
fall down
and sense of the mind submits to soul identity
At some point in time you realize you must crash
rolling and gaining momentum
when is the peak
when do you hit
energy radiates throughout the explosion of life
pins of hope
pins of love
fall down
and sense of the mind submits to the soul’s identity
Bowling is such a popular activity. In so many chick flicks and teenage drama reads, the main characters go bowling. A strike means so much and there’s a bunch of playful competition. The kids rejoice and all such.
I personally do not find so much joy in bowling. First of all, I suck at it. I hit the gutter almost every other time. I have no idea what’s the difference between the different-sized balls. And do we really have to wear the shoes? They’re uncomfortable and ugly. All in all, bowling is not my thing. I’d much prefer pool.
Bowling. Bowling. Bowling. Ever since I was four and realized I had the skill to knock down the all the ten pins in one blow i
“Bowling,” he says, monotone, and Sanae smiles widely.
“Yeah, sure. It’ll be fun.”
Joshua stares at him for a long while before shaking his head. “I can’t ignore my duties for childish games,” he says, and Sanae scoffs.
“You would be the first one to ignore your duties for-”
“And neither can you,” Joshua continues, as if he never said anything. “Unless you intend to let both your reputation as CAT and your cafe fall apart.”
Sanae rolls his eyes, wondering how he’s dealt with this kid for so many years. “Josh, it’ll take an hour, and you forget that I don’t need to sleep.” He puts on his most convincing smile and holds out a hand. “Come on. Spare a little time to play in your garden. We could both use the break.”
Joshua looks at his hand as if it’s something poisonous. Sanae takes the hint and rubs the back of his neck. “…And this is how you propose we spend it.” It’s not a question.
“Yep,” Sanae says, simple as that, and Joshua sighs. “Bowling’s not that bad,” the Angel adds. “I’ll even let you use bumpers while you learn.”
Joshua gives him a glare that could probably kill any lesser being. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that- it’ll cost him later. But he raises an eyebrow in silent challenge.
Sanae can tell that Joshua, despite himself, is intrigued. Intrigued by any potentially interesting game, even if he considers this one below him (Sanae is reasonably sure he just doesn’t want to go through the okay-so-how-do-I-do-this stage in front of people). He has a pretty good feeling he’s going to get his way, and he hides his smile from the Composer, who isn’t looking, anyway.
I like bowling. The last time I remember Going bowling was in Germany with a school trip in Erefurt. I had a nasty accident on this trip and another girl was also involved. She beat me at bowling the night before the accident. Coincidence or not? But even stranger was my friend who deluged in the dark arts read my tarot reading and it contained the Death card. Spooky.
Bowling. Rowing. Throwing. Bellowing. Mowing. Mewing. Earning. Learning. Writing.
round round and round. the ball is my head, as I smash into the target. the pins are my goals. Do not fall into the gutter, where I will be living if I fail. Strike.
I went bowling once down on the alley by main street , It was rough , bowling, I didnt like it , I think bowling is one of those things you need to like , It feels a bit rednecky and flintstoney .
you struck the pins
and got a strike
in two shots
i’m sure you cheated
but that’s not what they saw
they saw a hero in you,
just because you could
strike down some pins
in some stroke of skill
( luck, i think
luck )
the word is heavy on my tongue
what did you have that i didn’t?
and why would i want something as useless as
a strike anyway?
would it keep my lights on,
would it keep my tap running,
would it bring a fullness to my stomach?
you had nothing but
self-fulfillment
you were nothing but
a bum who was good with
some pins
and i’m jealous
that you found something
( it’s better
than what i’ve got,
which is a decade-old spite )
you were a tattered hero
with no pennies to your name
when i had everything
and.
nothing.
bowling was my favorite activity with him.
he took me bowling two times a week, tuesdays and fridays
i used to wait for him those days and kept thinking about his words on the others
i’ve never been to one since
It’s a game I love ….it’s just the precision with which u throw the ball…. It’s a fun game with the family…the spins and the the technique……but somehow u haven’t been able to win the game u at some point just give up…..
I was playing a game,
a game of chance,
but when I rolled the ball,
it was at second glance,
i realized,
the pins were needles,
and the the ball was the moon,
I wondered when I’d wake up,
id hoped it was soon.
But it rolled,
then popped,
then my dream stopped
and i wondered if the moon hit the pins
would it explose into mars
would the light become fireworks
and turn into stars
How I’d wished this morning for failure, instead my life attends to bowling. Not the sport, no, recalling a scene of that would be too easy but rather the process of making a ceramic bowl part of Kizaemon’s bowl technique of colonial Japan, I seek to create the fragmented and ordinary pieces. The most ordinary exhibit the greatest mystery.
we haven’t had the pleasure, have we? my name is bowling, hippolyte bowling. my mother was french, you know. i’ve come here to buy your land and plant peaches. yes, peaches. i know you’ve grown olives here but i prefer the sweet kind of nature. maybe in two years, i’ll have about 200 trees and i will sell them to the neighbouring villages. yes, i intend to sell them even as far as the reaches of the sea.
“We’re just going bowling, mom.” I said through the phone, exasperated. I was /not/ getting a sermon — not when I was about to have the night of my life. “I’ll be back before eight, I promise.”
Click.
In the dark, I could feel Devon looking straight at me.
“Eight, really?” He was smiling, a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“Yes, why?” I said slyly. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“Well, of course not…” He said, “Except that it’s going to be a promise you’re going to break.”
Suddenly, I felt myself be pulled by his strong arms as he drew me in a long, sweet kiss. I felt like a marionette, pulled by strings — he was the master of my body. Once we started, I didn’t want to stop, — helpless yet content in this world — but he carefully removed my lips from his. I gasped.
“Now, that was just the first pin.” He said through a heavy breath. As I laughed excitedly, his fingers have already found their way inside my blouse. “I’m going in for a strike.”
There was nothing so exciting as a Bowling Date. Not to her.
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these ones – the real ones – inside of them down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even writing about it feels like mindless activity. Activitytivitytivitytivity. Next word please…
i love bowling. it is active and competitive and works wonders for date activity social events anf just plain fun. it will always be one of my funnest and wonderful energizing sport.
Using a zombie head as the ball, and sticks of dynamite as the pins, I played the most explosive game I’ve ever played. It was fantastic.
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these one – the real ones – inside of them down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these one – real ones – inside of them past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowler and knocking the physical ones down pushes the real ones inside of him past the layer of his psyche that can feel pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…
Ninepins was once considered a game of kings, but that time has long since passed. Well, maybe not passed so much as evolved. These days the king is just as likely to bowl with the severed head of his enemies as with a ball.
My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowler and knocking the physical ones down pushes the real ones inside of him past the layer of his psyche that can feel pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. Next word please.
The time was running out, my last frame just a few seconds away. I grab the orange bowling ball in my hands, just one more strike.. i step towards the lane as the crowd waits silent in anticipation of a perfect game.
They should go bowling. Forgive me for feeling sore about it after all this time. Forgive me for not wanting he hear her name, either of their names. Forgive me for still feeling a little bit of pain. I’m only human. I’m just a fucking human.
I could see my neighbor standing here, white hat, sun glasses, big ol’ muffin top.
Blue eyes…
Aussie sun, back behind Her, white suit and green/yellow bow tie. My neighbor was 46 yrs old the last time I ever played against her; Bowels, Lawn Bowels. Agnate and undifferentiated I sunk in for her, fell for her.
She is Mrs Purcell now, and now we play side by side.
This is not a word I’ve heard for a while
a stir in the store of the deep
like an old book that nobody borrows
bowled over, by love?
more like hate.