Eight years old, looking around a brand new restaurant. All around the high walls are watercolor paintings. Sailboats in summer. Horses running in winter. Nobody has to teach us to love drawings and paintings, we just do. Showing what we see, using only our hands, is kind of an amazing thing. Loving color, loving the … Continue reading "Strange Markers (4)"
Humans play thoughtlessly upon the edge of great waters, even the one called “death”. Twenty-three years old, though, and while everything was done thoughtlessly, those waters had, frankly, come to look pretty inviting. January morning, bitter cold, a storm due in. Walking, walking, mile after mile. Another year ahead, another seemingly pointless year. Thinking, at … Continue reading "Strange Markers (3)"
At age thirteen, not much makes sense, so the young heart clings to traditions, where meaning is felt, and does not therefore need to be explained. Often, all the adults see is the confusion, which manifests itself in discontent and anger, and not the clinging, or the searching, or the questions, most of which are … Continue reading "Strange Markers (2)"
Grew up in Florida, rarely even seen snow. Twenty-two years old, fresh out of college, working in Florida, sent for a two week class in Ohio. In December. Started snowing the day after arrival. Walking around on the weekend, cutting across fields through snow, headed towards town. Ice on the roads, ice in eyebrows and … Continue reading "Strange Markers (1)"
My life is unremarkable and also unbelievable; a type of business in which I have nothing but receivables that never really get received. A kind of endless spinning, in which I languish in one spot and try to claim I'm winning
a thing can be said thousands of times a day by thousands of people and still not be true or a thing can be said one time by one person and be true truth runs away from noise and hides in the ruins of everything we forgotten or chose to misremember but can we really … Continue reading "commentary"
in the window, presents sitting, out the window, snow is falling, everything is wrong though, somehow, somewhere else is calling, calling why is it we stumble, badly, why do we fall down these wells? why are holidays so broken even trapped within these cells
there are no opportunities, for the ultimate inequality is of attractiveness so images are all he has; that, and his anger: boiling, simmering, spurting -- he can only dream of what he wants, he can only make up stories and scenarios where the image becomes reality, for his actual reality bares no resemblance, except for … Continue reading "he can only dream"
some scrape around for gold, while others will look higher; some dream of being bold, while others never tire. we fear now getting old, the loss of all desire -- but if we'd fight the cold, we must embrace the fire