Fonts that are fountains of Fun


Andrew van Der Merwe emulates Hans Schmidt in South Africa


squares in squares in squares

rectangles of horizons

& spires pointing…

Definition #316 Sounds of Silence

Illustration by Sevada Gregoian

Illustration by Sevada Gregoian

Andrew van der Merwe shared berlin-artparasites’s photo.

I can relate to this. The things that snap you out of depression are often simple pleasures and beauties. It’s partly how I make sense of the idea that God is love.

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started. —Meggie Royer


painting by Adam Tan

Definition #292 Looking life in the eyes

Andrew Van deMeir calligraphs in the sand with his surf-board

Andrew Van der Merwe calligraphs in the sand in South Africa with his surf-board

When I was young, I

jumped and spun, surfed with speed, sun;

slowly now, I pen.

It’s the birthday of the poet Sara Teasdale, born in St. Louis, Missouri (1884).

She specialized in brief, rhyming, lyric poems, usually about love.

Her poetry was slowly going out of style throughout her lifetime.

She wrote:

“When I can look life in the eyes, 

grown calm and very coldly wise,

life will have given me the truth

and taken in exchange — my youth,”

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