Most Recent Posts

Plastic Bag Ban – Policy Suggestions

Plastic Bag Ban – Policy Suggestions

As a result of New York State’s recent plastic bag ban, I was forced to purchase a giant, thick-walled, multi-use plastic bag. I had not thought I’d go shopping, but then I was out and wanted to pick up a couple things and thought I would. I hadn’t realized stores were no longer able to sell you plastic bags, but I would’ve still gone if I’d known that. I would’ve figured I’d buy a paper bag. Anyway, at the checkout, after they’d rung up my groceries, I was told that they’d run out of paper bags and all they had were these big shiny box-like, solid-walled plastic totes. My options were to abandon my groceries or buy them and the big bag. I chose the latter. I walked home overwhelmed by the irony. This took place in Crown Heights. A couple days later I noticed a sign in a fashionable little grocery/deli in Cobble Hill, apologizing for having run out of paper bags in February. Some months prior, I’d brought two instead of three bags to the Target in the Atlantic Terminal Mall (is that Downtown Brooklyn?) and so had to buy the only available bag made of a strange papery kind of plastic, gray and white with the red “Target” song and dance in the center. The handles fell off after two or three uses.

It is counterproductive to force people to purchase any reusable totes every time they don’t bring enough bags to their shopping trip. Even canvas totes have to be reused like 131 times to reduce the climate impact of plastic bags. But forcing people to buy huge reusable plastic bags in an effort to reduce the use of plastic bags seems just straight-up insane.

In retrospect, this is how I would’ve done the NYS bag ban:
Year 1:
A. All stores required to post signs prominently on entrance doors and at checkout. The signs explain the current phase of the law and (smaller, at the bottom) what will come next. (This will always be the case)
B. All stores must offer paper, plastic, and reusable canvas totes (no synthetic material) for sale at the checkout. Paper is a nickel. Plastic is a dime. Reusable tote prices are up to the store. The paper and plastic charges will be paid by the store to the state.
C. At the end of the year, stores will not be permitted to offer totes made of plastic or any other synthetic material.
Year 2:
A. Paper still a nickel. Plastic now a quarter. Canvas but no other kind of tote are also available for sale at the checkout counter.
Year 3:
A. Only paper and canvas totes are available. Paper costs a dime? Or leave it at a nickel?

With this policy we’re trying to both eliminate the use of plastics for shopping and to reduce the chance of a paper bag shortage (that’s the point of the year when paper bags are so much cheaper than plastic — to give the markets a sense for how many paper bags will be needed once we completely eliminate plastic bags).


Author: Think Tank SAWB
Editors: Bartleby & Amble
Copyright: AM Watson

NYC Journal #28 – Pill Splitter & Ariel Wine

NYC Journal #28 – Pill Splitter & Ariel Wine

NYC Journal #28 – Pill Splitter & Ariel Wine – Thursdays 3/18 & 3/25/2021

Today is Thursday again. Last Thursday we got the Naltrexone and on the walk home stopped into a Walgreens for a pill splitter. A woman appeared, head first out a double-ways-swinging floppy gray plastic door. “Where are the pill splitters?” “What?” “Pill splitters — to cut a pill in half.” “We don’t carry those. Target has those.” We didn’t believe her, but decided that Walgreens had run its course and walked out the folding glass doors, crossed stately Court Street and walked along wide Atlantic Ave, talking to ourselves.

“That was a lie. She just wanted to get rid of us. What’s the piece we’re missing? What’s the thing that we haven’t thought of that will give us money and allow us space to grow? We’ve tried cards, T-shirts, we’ve written a couple books, and now the soap. Maybe we need to figure out the soap. Maybe that’s the fulcrum that will allow us to roll the world. But what does the soap need?”

People walked around us. The sun was still up and the sky clear blue. We were comfy in a sweater and windbreaker. We barreled down the wide graying sidewalk until flowing up into the Atlantic Terminal Mall, whose escalator knows the way to Target.

Near the entrance stand two young people, somewhere in their twenties. The girl is pretty, like a tall, thin, pale owl with dark crinkling hair long and certain trailing behind. She peers over with a look of interest as you begin to query, but then her beautiful full lips twist in a slight annoyance at the question. Still she rallies and begins to start to speak “oh, those, … ” but the guy who is tall and thin and dark skinned with long face and triangle nose seguing into his black mask, he with long toothpick arms waving to the boxy reaches of Great Target, says, “pill splitters, those are gonna be by the pharmacy, or else, if not, then (and now he bends and flops his arms up the escalators and behind and to the right of us the bystanders) kitchenware.” That last line narrows our eyes a little and he tilts his head a little down and mumbles something about kitchenware. Kitchenware!

The tall light skinned girl stocking shelves says “oh those are in personal care, you can see the sign right there,” you turn around, “well, maybe you can’t see the sign, but it’s right there.” So that’s like a new scarecrow with a new vague idea and off you go again through the bright lanes of gray shelves and white shiny tiles.

She with the pinched nose, spreading thighs and top, like a sloping womanly dradel, maybe 45, maybe more, she tells the skeptic-eyed short Hispanic guys not to look at the electric razor display case, “don’t look up there! Those don’t mean we have them. Look here” and she points to the boxes locked behind sliding glass doors. I ask if she could point me to the pill splitter. She eyes the guys, in their early 30s I guess, who continue to look with slightly concentrated faces and uncertain eyes at the razor selection that they’ve been told is much less than the display case suggests, and waves me to follow her. “They’re” she begins that “they’re” before we enter the short aisle we are diagonalling towards, “right” she stretches that “right” out until we get almost to the opposite end of the short aisle, “there!” bending a little and pointing with a long, ornately shellacked and beaded fingernail. “Oh! Great! Thank you!”

Ariel nonalcoholic wine. Have to go to the Wine Warehouse on Broadway near Washington Square Park. Guy all duded up as a cowboy (the hard straw hat, jeans with rolling stencil embroidery on the back pockets, a Western shirt beneath a leather jacket with long leather tassles giving the sleeves a bit of wingishness, rattlesnake cowboy boots (jeans on the outside, but he’s still a dude), blue and white bandanna around his thin neck, a cloth mask of similar colors and patterns. I have been brought to the South Asian-looking man with a bit of a belly in a nice soft light brown sweater and dark blue jeans. The cowboy is so very thin, so rail thin, and he doesn’t want to stop talking about wines that he’s bought and tried and considered and relished and remembered. I try to hover relaxedly in the wings. The store has white linoleum floors and big brown crates and shelves and shelves full of wine. Both the cowboy and the wine seller are around 6′, but the wine seller is a bit above it, while the cowboy a bit below the mark. The cowboy is paper thin and his skin white like splotched paper. Maybe they are in their fifties, but the cowboy looks older, from the sun and the mismatch between his calling and his skin type. He’s not a real cowboy! What are you talking about?

The cowboy shoulders past me with a tiny scowl clenching his face and shoulders forward. Because what? I was waiting patiently where the other store worker had told me to wait. Should I have wandered away until your conversation had found a natural end? And then rushed back to the store expert?

His long fingers bend a little backwards and these are the alcohol-free wines. “Oh! So many!” “It’s only three. It’s not that many.” “Still! And there’s the Ariel red — that’s what I’m looking for.”

Everyone’s so happy in Washington Park. And they are all 20. Two girls sit on separate blankets, six feet apart on a little fenced-in grass. The talk happily across the prescribed space. In the circle pit, skaters, in loose T-shirts or without shirts revealing slight but exquisitely detailed musculature, they ply their trade. All around the perimeter other kids watch and chat, many with masks, some without, a few filming with their phones as the young men in the center do kick flips and jump over the center bowl and otherwise make the fountain into a performance skate park.

A young East Asian guy is banging on a full drum set in front of the skater’s cirle. Other skaters swoop by here and there. A tall thin man with mahogany skin and rich black hair dances salsa steps with a a tall thin woman as pale as the winter with long blond hair on her rail shoulders. They dance near the bench where they’d a moment before sat and next to which their boom box blares salsa music and their banner reads, “Learn Salsa!”

And all around, everyone is happy and vibrant and it’s like 60 degrees still and the sun is still up and it’s like 7pm and it is good and they have all these different hues and hairs and they’ve gathered from all over the globe to grow up here in the USA and share overlapping cultures and a common tongue and what does it all mean? But there it is and you too walk through the park and feel like it could all work out, the whole thing, all of us, and as you exit the park, an old lady with long gray hair, a big white sweatshirt, a bluejean dress and long rumpling socks and her mask up — she feels it too, the exuberance of youth.

Anyway, we’ve got the Naltrexone, the pill-splitter, three alcohol-free wines, one regular wine, all red wines. I think we’re set. But we have to get some groceries. Red sauce, cheese, chicken, vegetables, yogurt I guess.

Author: whatever
Editor: not today
Associated: BW/AW/They Got Their Fingers In All Pots
Copyright: AMW

NYC Journal #27 – Pick-up Naltrexone

NYC Journal #27 – Pick-up Naltrexone

Sunny day. 60ish. Sweater is overkill. The round-faced round girl with the blue cotton headcovering says “we’re good” when he offers her his insurance card. The gaunt pale daydreamed man had told him that he needn’t give his insurance info over the phone: they’d ask him for it when he picked up the medicine. So he’d been fiddling with a little white plastic card while waiting behind the red piece of tape that was coming unstuck from the thin gray carpet. He reached it out to her. She said “we’re good”. She told him to answer the question on the screen. It was something meaningless about was he getting medicine? For some reason he didn’t have to pay anything and then he walked out in the sun some more until he wound his way back up to a pizza place.

That’s where the short stocky kind of fat guy said what’ll you have? and he said three slices of cheese and the guy said, “three slices cheese!” with gusto and a little shouting up to the sky as if it had been the right question in a quiz show, and then he’s swinging the big square metal pizza-handling surface (with a wooden handle) between the three remaining pieces of thin-crust cheese and the metal pizza tray, and spinning in one continuous motion the slices up and into the superhot metal oven.

$9, he puts the $1 change in the plastic-vase tip jar, for which he gets a quick Thanks, and then pizza in the pizza box he heads back out into the sun.

This is enough. Enough is enough. But pizza with avocado and cherry tomatoes in the break room with a few moments of chit chat in the mosying plague times was pleasant. Anyway, this office has heard immunity by now.

NYC Journal #26 – Naltrexone then

NYC Journal #26 – Naltrexone then

NYC Journal #26 – Tues 3/16 – Sat 3/20 – Sun 3/21 – Monday 3/22/2021

So he had confirm the need by wasting a beautiful weekend, and now that that’s settled, he can start taking one Naltrexone every weekend morning. And this hopefully will give him a better life.

He didn’t want to tell his short 50 year old lady doctor with the Russian accent, Jewish name, tidy blob of light brown hair, dark eyes, and “Thank God!” for how the X-rays showed no pneumonia and “Thank God!” again when they showed no scarring — he didn’t want to tell her that he drinks a bottle of red wine every Saturday. He doesn’t want to wreck her image of him, although she must have almost no image of him, seeing as how quickly and seldomly they speak. Not only that, she can probably guess. There’s something a little fragmented in his aspect, if you ask me.

And he thought he could pay for Monument with his flexible spending account. So that’s why he did it that way. Some guy takes it easy a doctor in his sixties pie sleepy eyed and a little droopy basset hound on the small picture — that guy was late to the phone intake, but nice and it was agreed that Naltrexone was a good thought. We don’t know how it all went. Something about now, side-effects (and then reels off a little list), but the ones I actually see, well, nausea, so that’s why you take it with breakfast to try and head that off. The obligatory spiel for the free group counseling at the end and everyone parts friends. “I’m looking forward to it!” And they both force a coughy laugh.

The guy’s an alcoholic. But I wouldn’t really say that. It’s just that he can’t quite handle things lately. Lately? As in the last several years? But now, the problem’s been ramping up, hasn’t it? I can’t remember. He’s very weird because one moment all is fine and docile or giggly and then he’s huddled up over the hurt, saying how he can’t anymore, and then he’s fine again except saying the same thing over and over again about how such and such must be a mix up and/or that he is lonely.

You can get the pills. I think it is easy. Even if you initially tell the doctor to send it to Duane Reade and Duane Read can’t use your insurance — that’s easily solved: you just have to call CVS, wait fifteen minutes while a thirty second space music bit loops ethereally round and round, and then stumble with the pale thin long-faced young man with the tidily parted short chestnut hair and the big 1950s thickframed glasses (in your mind, since you can’t see him for real) as he mispronounced your street, a very easy to pronounce street and one that the guy has probably heard correctly pronounced a hundred times (given his line of work), and then google the phone number for Duane Reade and read it to him over the phone. Then I think you can glide in there and pick up the pills and you’ll be back at life, taking walks in the weekend sun, doing your hour a day of coding, maybe even somehow once again writing something. Yeah, gonna pick that up tomorrow, and then I’ll be all set.

But the job has torn you down. Too many years rope a doping. And now so tired, so lonely, so stranded in outer space because the spacewalk went bad and now you are spinning slowly further and further away from the spaceship, while your so-called-friends play cards, video games, and otherwise pretend not to notice.

It doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. Do an hour of learning a day until you’ve found another way. But what? Data science? Takes too long. Python development first and then later add in data science? Go back to the abandoned copy writing job? It’s just that the web is already full of so much stupid useless content, and isn’t that all anyone hires anyone for? Junk that you skim over, maybe grabbing a salient thought or two, but mostly just spinning your wheels and wasting your worlds?

It doesn’t matter.

Whatever happened to meditation?
And the Buddhist group?
Why don’t you try that again?

Author: Fred Dodge
Editor: BW/AW
Copyright: AMW

Pure Love as a Soap

Pure Love as a Soap

Pure Love is all there really is, so you can’t avoid It. But our conscious focus mostly slides past It. And we live like beasts of the field and lionesses on the prowl.

By consciously pouring Pure Love into our soap, we hope to create an energy surrounding the soap that invites other consciousnesses to experience the Pure Love. Obviously, you can’t really pour Pure Love in or out of anything. Pure Love is always surging through everything always and forever Amen. But in our fictional factories, we can do any fool thing, just so long as we remember that it’s all storytime on a dusty old shag rug in the spacious children’s room of a two-level library with the parking garage underneath and dry dusty piney mountain air all around pervading and lifting up the whole. And we thought

oh we thought it might

we thought it might

somehow work

But what do we know?!?!?

Author: Bartleby
Editor: Amble
Copyright: Andy

Pure Love as a Soap

Pure Love as a Soap

It was some time ago now when it first occurred to us to sell Pure Love. We spent a long time experimenting with different production, storage, and distribution methods. We refined our advertiser’s pitter patter and embellished our salesman-is-consman-ship. We became hardened businessmen, driven by the power and profit motives. We strayed from our calling, and in shame disorientation and self-cynicism slipped into drink, paired judiciously with raw cheese and mixed, unsalted nuts.

Actually, we’d always been in drink, and we always felt like we were at least trying to fight the good fight when it came to balancing the worthiness of Pure Love, art, and fun; and the iffiness of money, success and their exigencies.

Anyway, at some point enough is enough. And hard-driving businessmen and wind-blown poets alike have to take that ultimate risk: what will happen if I step away from my habit? Will I lose all my creative energy? Will I drown beneath the passions that I gave up trying to deal with long ago? Or do I have much real creative energy left anyway? And haven’t I been trying to deal with these passions ever since I found them, searing through the world, and slicing my heart apart?

Anyway, at some point enough is enough. Pure Love is God is Light is Godlight is Reality. The rest is True only to the degree it flows directly off Pure Love. We can’t sell the only thing that is. How could we take money, which is pretend, in exchange for the True Good, which alone is Real? How could we take currency, which is ultimately meaningless, in exchange for Kind Joy, which alone matters? How could we?

So please, take all the Pure Love you can pillage. Turn our stores over. Knock down our factories. Raze our fields. Loot our warped-stone castles on their winding mountain pedestals. Take all the Love while we fade like chimney smoke in the light blue springday sky. You can take all the Love and there will still be more, because Love is all there is, and taking never was anyhow. It won’t hurt us. We were just pretend anyway. We just pretended to exist. It was all part of the gimmick. You can take all the Love. It won’t deplete our infinite stores. You can yank It from us. It won’t change either our possession of It or our inability to access It adequately. It doesn’t matter anymore.

When I was a child I walked along the wide creek and watched it green-glass flow. Minnows darted hesitatingly under smooth flat shale stones. A strange thick orange liquid oozed down step after shattered paperthin step of shale. That was from a little pipe that I guessed came from GE, since it was on the side of the bank facing the brick GE locomotive factory (although GE was a dirt parking lot and a busy road away). Long trees with thick light-brown ravine-and-plateau bark fell across the creek and I scampered along for twenty or thirty feet five or ten feet above the sliding ripples. Crayfish scooted backwards into mudbanks. Tadpoles would sometimes suddenly populate a little stone-trapped eddy. But most wonderous of all, water striders — thin brown bug bodies with swept-backed layered “wings” (they never unfolded; I guess they weren’t wings) and four long side-legs and two forward-reaching prayingmantis-esque front-legs — would run across the water like Jesus in his prime.

oh, the soap part, yeah, well

Author: Bartleby
Editor: Amble
Copyright: Andy

PLS Wrapper Idea

PLS Wrapper Idea

Welcome & Thank You!


Welcome to Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!

Thank you for stopping by.

We work day and night to bring you only the highest quality soap and the Purest Love.

But we always have a few minutes for our ancient friends — like you, dear Consumer! Since time immortal, the Light has shone through everything, binding us all together into a deep, abiding, and frankly inextricable family of sentience — of watchers in the dark, watchers through for in and by the Light. So yeah, we’re ancient eternal friends. Can’t be helped!

Contents & Usage Instructions!

What we have here is a fragrant, smooth, refreshing mix of lye, fat, Goodness and Truth; hand/heart/mind/soul-crafted in our infinite expanse of daydreaming mines, fields, forests, factories, and sunshine-through-the-pines high-valley strolls.

To use, simply dampen with clean water, lather onto hands, underarms, or other areas that have succumbed to dirt and/or odor. Rinse. And voila!

To use, simply pull back your shoulders, chest out, turn yourself inside out along the center line running from your crown to your tail, letting the Light flood in and out, overrunning everything. Breathe slow in and out, letting the Light explode through you and everything and everyone. And voila!

The soap fades, the Love abides.

The soap is physical. The Love is metaphysical. The soap is all well and good. The Love is the Light of True Goodness that chooses everyone forever and always. The soap’s fine. The Love is Pure Love — the eternal spiritual Good that all earthly loves partake of to the degree they truly love. The soap is another one of these mundane illusions. The Love is the one thing that is actually Real — the Reality that creates, sustains, lovelifts, heals/restores/savaltionates, and cherishes all creation/illusion.

The soap we sell you, the Love we give you.

Our Story!

The fictional but self-actualized and -instantiated Bartleby Willard — that lonely shaking whimpering would-be love song and/or dog under the bed during a thunderlightning storm, that stumbling pigeon tripping over its own broken wing while foolish little kids toss pebbles at its face where blood drips already out one terrified eye, that stormgray heartbreak settling over the cornfields the sunny asphalt highway the concrete trucker stop with an old-fashioned silver-trailer diner in the center where a thin middle-aged woman in a stiff polyester pink skirt-uniform smiles her long horsey yellow smoked-over-teeth grin and pours you the gentlest kindest most believably mediocre cup of coffee you’ve ever had — wandered one day some days ago (like 30,000 from one count; 100,000,000 from another; an infinite infinite from another) into the Wandering Albatross Press Building and declared himself a live-in writer.

No one minded enough to send him a cease and desist memo. In fact, he fit right in and was at home.

And so he set to work at a little wooden table next to a dusty shaft of light in a brick nook in the brick and mortar Wandering Albatross Press Building. Immediately he declared his project: Fabricate Pure Love in fictional factories — where the laws of Daydream hold sway and Pure Love is as buildable as anything else –, and then push, prod, pull, and cajole the Pure Love into the real world and sell It at a generous but still profitable price.

Yes, Bartleby Willard came to play ball — he came to finally fulfill capitalism’s long overdue promise of creating things worth possessing, even if it means giving that actually-worthwhile product away and laughing off everything but the patter of rain on the window pane, the splash of light-spraying salt-bleeding sea against a seawall of square chunked pink gray and white granite, the forward-stumbling thumpity-thump of little bare feet on the sunwarmed garden trail.

I don’t know but the fictions shifted around him and now Bartleby works in the Skullvalley After Whistletown Building for Skullvalley After Whistletown Booksellers. But nothing much has changed. The same essential daydreams swirl round. He still has two eternal bosses, a couple close associates, and an undefined number of other colleagues.

More on this at A Readable Reader.

For now, know that Bartleby has diversified his jokes and now has his long transparent fingers in bubbling soap cauldron’s in cavernous dragon lairs and wide wind-blown fairy fields throughout innumerable worlds, and even a couple on some moons.

Guarantee / Disclaimer !

We at B. Willard’s Pure Love Soap do hereby heartily and thoroughly guarantee that you get something out of this product and its surrounding song and dance, Or You’re Money Back! [Just email us at and we’ll figure something out.]

We at B. Willard’s Pure Love Soap do hereby lawyerly point out that Pure Love is all there really is, was, or will be, and so our soap is — insofar as it is at all — 100% Pure Love.

What do you think?

Author: Bartleby Willard
Editor: Amble Whistletown
Copyright: Andy Watson

PLS Wrapper Idea

PLS Wrapper Idea

Pure Love soap:
Everyone’s complete victory follows axiomatically from the Essence/Nature of our product.

Pure Love soap:
Use the soap, keep the Love.
[In fact, you can no more escape the Love than a triangle can escape Cartesian space.
We might say:
Pure Love soap:
The essence of our product is your eternal Fate.
Pure Love soap:
The soap’s for sale; the Love’s unavoidable.
Pure Love soap:
Everyone’s complete victory follows axiomatically from the Essence/Nature of our product.]

Although this victory whites out all our individual egos, so to the extent it would be bragging rights, it undermines the meaningfulness of bragging rights.

Pure Love soap:
but that’s not the kind of victory we were talking about!

Pure Love soap:
one small consumer product; many insurmountable paradoxes.

Author: yeah
editor: well
copyright: AMW

PLS wrapper idea

PLS wrapper idea

Hello and Thank you!
from our family to yours
Thank you for purchasing
and in, we’re sure, some way loving
Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap.

Hello and Thank you!
from our seamstress to your breeches
Thank you for giving us a try.
We’re just soap in the way that life is just life and love is just love.
We’re just soap like you’re just a person.

In the history of Bartleby Willard’s
Center for Pure Love Soap Study & Fabrication
we’ve had our ups and downs
In prehistoric times, our soap was often mistaken for food
In ancient history, our soap was often mistaken for sacrilege
In the First Century AD, our soap was often mistaken for useless
When the Barbarians swept through Rome, our soap was largely overlooked
When Medieval sages from London to Shanghai to Mesa Verde held forth, our soap was mentioned only rarely and often slightingly.
When the iron horse straddled continents and racing chimneys of billowing steam brought virtuos maidens to their iffy cowboys, our soap was sold beside power tonics and other sham wonders.
When Europe burned and Nagasaki evaporated, when the Cold War crept and Vietnam broke, as the US was proven right and then proved itself wrong and then proved itself at least for a moment dumb lucky, our soap bided its time.

But now!
Now information is practically unavoidable.
Now insight is a lazy searchengine meander away.
And so now
our time is here.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
A product worth contemplating.
A joke worth the singing.

Our soap will clean what you bodily reek
but what it more deeply and sincerely seeks
is to do nothing at all.

That’s right!
You heard it hear first!
Our soap does nothing.
Our soap bows curtsies stands to one side.
Our soap laughs giggles hops out of the way.
Our soap does nothing.
And in this nothing
in this kind negligence
there you find yourself
there you find your way
there you find your joy
there we find our love.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
Who even cares?
Why even dare?
A product worth forgetting.
A song you don’t quite recall.
An idea circling round and round
winding in and in, burrowing down and down.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
Because just the whisper of a love that doesn’t ask for anything in return
just the hint of a love that isn’t here to get off or feel strong or loved or anything
just a gentle riddle about a love that only loves
is enough.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
Because only The God Knows.
Because only the Light shows
the way home.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
Buy it or don’t.
Like it or not.
No matter.
The Giggle advances.
The Light leaps in long-legged bounds.
The Joy wins.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap.
Because we really mean it and in a world full of memes, that’s enough.
Because only Love is Real and everyone knows so.
Because game over.

Authors: B Willard & A Whistletown
Copyright: AMW
Editors: We skipped that step

PLS wrapper idea

PLS wrapper idea

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
The soap fades away; the Love abides.

Our soap is forged in giant, clacking factory of brick, steel, cement, tar, hope, fear, shame, pride, tenderness, violent flinches, gentle lullabies and broken dreams.

Through our patented process, the raw materials — tidy, fragrant, and pleasantly plump pre-soap pulp; and all the thoughts, senses and passions of all the creatures in all the worlds — are carefully refined and interwoven into chunks of soap that shine forth with refreshing physical properties and a Love that only gives, that never takes, that only ever and forever accepts, cares for, lovelifts, heals/restores/remakes and cherishes everyone.

Is our product true?
Are our adverts true?
Is our Love True?
We ask ourselves — in our sweaty cavernous Love Brewing Stations, with cauldron after cauldron of bubbling lye, fat, sorrow, joy, happy to sad aches, sharp to vague longings, wishes freshly whelped to well-worn — !
We ask ourselves — while tilling our love fields and baling our strands of tangled love — what we’re really about, if we mean what say, if we’ve got what we promise.

Bartleby Willard’s Pure Love Soap!
The soap fades away; the Love abides.

If we are fools, madmen, souls out of step, rhythms that miss,
we apologize to our consumers.
We’d wanted to give you something actually worth consuming!
But maybe it just can’t be done.
Maybe a consumer can’t be any more joyfully overflowing than anyone else.
Maybe it’s all been a kind of sham, this whole venture.

If, in that case, you could perhaps,
Just let it go by,
and forgive us, the flow of history, the stories that hang on math like leathered meat on a molding bone, the bodies in the basements, skeletons in the attics, experts that weren’t really, wisdoms that didn’t quite, kindnesses that pretended more than they helped.

we didn’t mean no harm.

or at least
we didn’t mean to mean to harm

Author: B Willard
Editor: A Whistletown
Copyright: AM Watson