HeyJaredThursday
An exploratory drift through nature, the psyche, and other corner-of-the-eye realms.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 8
- Latest publication
- Sep 26, 2026
- Audience
- Checking…
- Earliest in this view
- Aug 5, 2026
Latest issues
Gentle (opens the original)
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Gentle lay the land today.The sky was soft as dough.The sun ran over Sonningand settled down below. Gentle lay the land today.Yellow, red and brown.Conquers fell discreetly-a crash without a sound.Gentle lay the land today.No thought was there for long.Idle lay the shrunken woods.The birds forgot their song.
Existential Crisis on EasyJet Flight EZY2197 (opens the original)
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I was embedded in the ever-swelling issue of where to slot myself in the great mosaic. Whichever shape I could mould upon my psyche promulgated an instant sorrow as I became aware of the denial of all other shapes within my powers and thus the denial of my freedom. None of these shapes were wedded too tightly to any occupational bent; rather, they were personalities, natures, or spirits of humans I could conceive myself to be. In that respect they were crafted from the sense, the breath, the sme
Suffolk Somewhere (opens the original)
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When I went to Bury St Edmunds, something fell upon the town that was as much a mood as a weather system. The sky was an array of curly coasters in the grey tones you’d expect for November, where the constant threat of rain is more of a misery than the rain itself. There was no breeze and little life in the trees and parkland grasses that seemed hypnotised by the very mood they had created – in alliance with soggy leaves pushed up against the kerb, squashed red berries under damp yew trees and r
Last of the summer wine (opens the original)
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Should I haunt the cobbled alleys of an old town and watch the rare old light bring some hope to those cold streets? I could perch on the steps on the corn exchange, watching the world go by - if indeed it ever really goes by, it seems to stay on the inner screen for a while pulsating away. From a bench under the dubious shade of a withered birch in a plastic pot, I might wait for a while. While others use the bench to rest their weary legs, I would be benching - the socially acceptable way to a
Vipassana for ya (opens the original)
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Silence wafts through the pores of noise.Noise wafts through the pores of silence.Communion with a garden pondor a main street pneumatic jackhammerawakens the same soundless hum of pure life.Inner and outer happenings,cleverly dubbed as mere sensations,twang the chords in a refined somatic orchestra.Time that festers behind and brews aheadimplodes upon its own illusory selfthen disappears into a flawless tune of nowwhile a self of former colossal wrongbecomes a cloud of pure consci
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