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a d e e a r t . c o m

write art

there is an ever growing collection of writings starting from 1997
and each year a new collection is completed.
the words range from short stories, essays, jarble, stream of conscious, thoughts, documentaries, situations, diaries and fun with drawings intersperced throughout.
no editing went from hand to typewriter...
the content is full of gramatical errors, accidents and sometimes words that may be innapproppriate for children.
there is no continuity through the books
and can be read randomly.

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title   pages   year of creation
my self-existence

my self-existing
witness pen

my self-existable
exercises in exits & exists
my self-exister
word twister
my self-existent
essay entries
my self-existorn
back in forths
my self-existances
bag plop
my self-existory
paper possibilities
my self-existam
girl steady
my self-existtle
unsent little letters
my self-exiten
eager pen
my self-existore
letters galore



Adee's writings have a purity that I envy. As a writer, reading her collections, I become excited by the energy that every line possesses. There is nothing there on that page that has not come straight out of her. It is absolutely addictive reading that makes me wish my writing had an ounce of that purity, personal truth and urgent energy.
As a reader, reading her work is like arriving at a fountain after crawling through a dark fucking dry yellow land. Bukowski once said that, as a young writer, after spending time in the library trying to read the supposed literary greats, he was starving for a truth that flowed without manufactured sentences and thoughts. John Fante was the only writer who fed that starvation. I feel that way about Adee. I can't stand manufactured writing; that sweet, assembly-line, Columbia built, multi-influenced effect writing. Expressing a thought through a "tried and true" method only makes me slam the book closed, book after book, like Bukowski, day after day, in that library. Adee doesn't even know the word "manufacture". Call it "stream of conscious" call it "modern prose poetry" I don't give a fuck. There are no filters that her words pass through before they hit the page. It is pure expression. And that is all I want. And it happens to be an expression that I relate to and find joy in. It is a unique command of words that she possesses and an instinctual way she has to make them dance to her own groove. And once you tap in you hope it goes on and on.

                                   -peter rinaldi, writer/filmmaker


from my self-existent, essay entries, 2001      
A story short by Shortenstem
Silver Secret Shortenstem
climbed up upon some cuffed hems
sitting near oh lovely dear
Miss Partlyplacement handle friend
Silver Secret Shortenstem
look on over under them
below the two could see the sea
Shining brightly bright can be
Miss Partlyplacement handlefriend
whispered "Silver Secret Shortenstem"
Eyes a wided so did nose
Silver Secret smelled the rose
that, engulfed Miss Partly placement
handle friend, was it lotion
was it tea
questions asked to be to be
Smile did Shortenstem
"Sit with me pretend pretend "
did they do and do they did
hand in elbow knee in chin
the shining sea did over see these
two, two these kiss by the trees
As my leg itched
it shook
it broke
in the cold
it burned
a thought
in my
   Oh my my to think of others causes
my thinking of others and them
                      and then
   I think of how they think
and what they do and their
thinking towards me
   So I think of me
through thinking of
     Them the me theme
   The being of me
     The me I've been
   Never ever the less I
     see who
   Then is worth while
     to think about
and thinking about thinking
   thinks alot, Thinks alot
like loves to think