|“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson Here I am.|
the rain beats out a quiet tempo on my window panes as Oscar Peterson plays quietly. nights like this make me stare at my journals and pen.
They wait patiently for me on my desk across the room like a wallflower waiting to be asked to dance. They wait and I hesitate, deciding. There’s always something electric about anticipating - whether we wait for a person, a moment or an idea.
Something tantalizing and sweet about dreaming of what could be.
I have bought countless notebooks and leather bound journals - as if my subconscious longs to speak something out, but they lay around half filled. And yet, every time I’m in town, I feel the urge to buy another one. Half full, but never fully filled....
The strange and mystic art of trying to turn a mix of metals into gold.
A rumored hobby of Isaac Newton; understanding the gravity of his situations.
Life makes alchemists of us all.
We take our elements - the hard, the fine, the dense, the noble, and the untouchable radioactive- And we blend them. We try our hardest to mix them into something that shines in the sun. Something of value and beauty. While we know that Gold, in its perfection, stands alone, we still keep mixing. Like mad scientists making artistry of chemistry, we mix til it’s similar enough to be satisfied for one more day.
And when the luster fades, we start again- beautiful, mad, manic beings seeking after the s...
And as I drown on this river of broken hopes and dreams,
I’ll smile and play a song;
They’ll only stand on the banks of my oblivion,
As they smile and clap along.
Childhood memories, names and stages
I turned around, lost touch, lost years, lost ages
Now my compatriots in childish fantasy
Have become nothing more than strangers to me.
Names so familiar and memories that stay
But lost connections in the land of long ago and far away.
Still in my heart, the images remain,
In the pages of my mind, forever stained.
And in the spaces of eternity,
I’ll hold dear all the moments of you and me.
There she goes again,
Dancing on the wind.
The wispy, sweet refrain
Stirs for her to begin.
With dark, tangled tresses that reach to her back
She floats and is angled to a rhythmless track.
Free as the breezes she dances upon
And oh so dear to me,
Long after breezy days have gone,
The Wind-Dancer still she will be.
What is Hope?
Emily Dickinson called it a thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the song without words.
While many artists paint this quote with birds, I don’t see it as something so fragile.
In my mind, Hope is different.
Hope is a strong, tall, beastly, battle hardened angel that sits in a corner of the heart folding paper swans.
He is a guardian. He smiles quietly, wordlessly.
Whenever he walks, things change. He valiantly fights off sadness, and is a good partner to The Will.
He nudges softly in quiet moments. He whispers like the breeze, and is stronger than the whirlwind.
Hope makes the discouraged try again.
Hope is there when the broken-hearted start listening ...
John Steinbeck, the author of my Home county, once wrote, “You can’t go home again because Home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.”
As I sit here and reminisce of my childhood in Bakersfield, I must say that he is right.
I was born and raised in the dust bowl of Kern county. Rain was a rarity, and snow was a myth. The world always smelled faintly of dust, alfalfa hay, and livestock. I went to a school that was older than the Second World War, and was parked out in the styx - even though I lived in the suburbs.
We were two hours from every other kind of landscape- mountains to the north, desert to the east, and the beach to the west. My mother would feed my sense of ad...