Archive for December, 2011



December 28, 2011

The world is a figment outside your window
Folks are ferried from future to past,
oblivious to their patterns of transience.
Fleeting glimpses of smiles and lives,
imagined impressions
Strange expression of ingrained ritual abound
The late night stories, numerous and varied
Even the times when no one is about.

No one? Untrue.
There’s a devil at the crossroads
He knows all about the blues.
Sittin’, watching with those wise eyes
that have such great charisma
and never seem to be any colour
in particular.
He sees the desperate driven
from past to future
and future to past
always rushing,
but getting nowhere fast,
eluding that happy medium
that state of inbetween
the here and now.
Where gypsy vixens serenade
by moonlight
and the devil sings the blues.

I have no idea when I wrote that. Or the type of mood I was in when I wrote it. All I know about it is that I did.
I often come across random pieces of ramblances, one off whimsies, bits of blithering. Some times I’m so far removed from the moment when I wrote them, it takes me some time to realize that it was indeed I who has penned this piece of poetry.

How delightful that is. To know that I can still surprise myself. How much hope that gives me for the rest of you to do the same.



December 27, 2011

What does one do when your heart and your head live in different places? Not to mention where the body would live if it had as much of a say as the heart and the head.
What happens when all of these places are on different continents?

Is that the definition of home? When one lives in a place where all three cohabitate happily? If that’s the case, I haven’t found it yet. I guess I’ll have to keep looking.
Or perhaps just be content with satisfying one of the three at a time.


Long time no blog

December 14, 2011

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans…as that luscious songwriter of a man John Lennon once penned. I would concur with that sentiment, especially in this respect of my plan to write way more often than I do. I write tidbits here and there, single lines written on napkins and in books, on random receipts or stored in my head while I’m working in the hopes that I’ll remember them when I’m near a paper and pen next. If I wrote as often as I planned to, my life would have to be put on hold more often than it is. Because that is the way of life. It just happens, regardless of what I intend to be doing with it. Suddenly I find that months have gone by and I have lists of things I’d like to do, at some point, when I have the time. Not just the big things, like surf trips to Nicaragua or travelling through Eastern Europe on a motorcycle. Or learning how to drive a motorcycle, which would more easily facilitate a trip on one.
The small things just as much. Playing my fiddle more often, stretching and hula hooping, writing in my book, continuing the work on the rock opera I plan to be part of my extensive legacy to humanity in the future. Saving up to buy a piano. Saving up to buy a house. Big things and small things.

So I’ll start small. I’ll start here, tonight. If we concentrate on the small things we love in our daily habits, the big things might seem a little more accessible. In the hopes that when life happens, it will encompass those other plans I make. Which includes writing. Way more. About whatever, because that at least will mean that I’m writing.

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