"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." Thoreau
In my best attempt to fall off the beaten track of a constant life of conflict, with blinking red lights that remind me there is a world out there that demands my attention and understanding, I have succumbed to the pressure of focusing my thoughts toward a miniature screen and sticky keyboard and away from the natural, present movement in front of me.
I do this out of some sort of nudging obligation that says I'm needed, I'm missed, something else is more important...
Instead of diving head first into the saltiness of an escape and letting it wash over me with a simplistic wildness that screams "It's Your Life", I begrudgingly operate the wheel in the direction of someone else's priorities.
This is a minor sickness.
Won't you help me get well?
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Doubt Is Loud
"A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not quench." Matthew 12:20
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Progress
Searching for my own inspiration as tonight's shadows spread across the streets of Queens, NY.
"Boy, the way Glen Miller played. Songs that made the Hit Parade. Guys like us, we had it made. Those were the days! Didn't need no welfare state. Everybody pulled his weight Gee, our old LaSalle ran great. Those were the days!
And you knew where you were then! Girls were girls and men were men. Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again. People seemed to be content. Fifty dollars paid the rent. Freaks were in a circus tent. Those were the days!
Take a little Sunday spin, go to watch the Dodgers win. Have yourself a dandy day that cost you under a fin. Hair was short and skirts were long. Kate Smith really sold a song.
But couldn't seem to shake these profound words.
"Boy, the way Glen Miller played. Songs that made the Hit Parade. Guys like us, we had it made. Those were the days! Didn't need no welfare state. Everybody pulled his weight Gee, our old LaSalle ran great. Those were the days!
And you knew where you were then! Girls were girls and men were men. Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again. People seemed to be content. Fifty dollars paid the rent. Freaks were in a circus tent. Those were the days!
Take a little Sunday spin, go to watch the Dodgers win. Have yourself a dandy day that cost you under a fin. Hair was short and skirts were long. Kate Smith really sold a song.
I don't know just what went wrong!
Those Were the Days!"
I just don't know what went wrong.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Life of Leisure
Exhale. At the edge of my street in the dull murmur of a rainy night.
My legs ache . A sign of standing for a living.
Also a sign that I strolled silently across Manhattan at tonight's end.
It took the growing puddles, glistening in the dim lights of quaint West 13th. to reflect back at me the constant stir of motion and motivation that flows through this city like fluid.
I've missed it.
This visual of time...passing.
In this revealing of others, playing out their lives during the bathing of our spring sidewalks and my hooded head, I realized this is precisely how writers, write.
They examine life around them at a slower pace than the express train to the Bronx or the ticking clock of a production's schedule. They make the moments to observe amongst the contented and dreamers. They join them. And drink.
This evening, in the 12th hour. They called a wrap on me. Done. Law and Order SVU Season 13.
More the wiser, definitely more the whinier.
But now I have the time, in a simply fantastic city, to muse.
My legs ache . A sign of standing for a living.
Also a sign that I strolled silently across Manhattan at tonight's end.
It took the growing puddles, glistening in the dim lights of quaint West 13th. to reflect back at me the constant stir of motion and motivation that flows through this city like fluid.
I've missed it.
This visual of time...passing.
In this revealing of others, playing out their lives during the bathing of our spring sidewalks and my hooded head, I realized this is precisely how writers, write.
They examine life around them at a slower pace than the express train to the Bronx or the ticking clock of a production's schedule. They make the moments to observe amongst the contented and dreamers. They join them. And drink.
This evening, in the 12th hour. They called a wrap on me. Done. Law and Order SVU Season 13.
More the wiser, definitely more the whinier.
But now I have the time, in a simply fantastic city, to muse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
