Farting Round....

The humidity has broke. I no longer sit and sweat, think and sweat, drink and sweat...ah. Today I relax, I lounge about, I sit, I gab, I try not to distract.

Should be a good day to write. To let the fingers do the talking, mental diarrhea expunged, brain emptied of stored up sludge...a soul oil change. Carry on, ignore the typing female at the other end of the couch. The cat that cuddles. The traffic that zooms by, the locals who peek in the window. Focus, center, write the unwritten. Carry on, move on, shuffle the bruised ass, now numb. Numb is fine, today, it seems right. Brain full of bollocks, no poetry, no grand ideas, simply words, spit out higgly-piggly for the sake of well, um well writing?

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The Gimp....

I arrive home after a night peddling beer and for the most part Digby scallops (they were all the rage, a 'special', that was actually special, minus the rice), only to hear the voice of Katie, which instantly made me grin...however, and egad, I spot the crutches, my heart sinks. Katie is damaged, she is gimped...sigh.

Ok, nothing broken, she has a badly bruised right foot, a work related injury (dangerous occupation that of an artist). All this is fine, (sucks to be her) because it allows me to coddle and spoil. I take care of my friends, does my soul good to protect, to make things well.

The image of her bounding through the house, a room at a time on crutches is a sight to behold. I am thinking that she might be a world champion calibre 100 metre crutchist. Para-Olympics here she comes.

Its good to tune out sometimes...

Things are a mess. The Middle East is on Fire. Ottawa has decided that it is politically expedient to piss all over the Maritimes, let them eat cake, Harper seems to think, and why not? His government has no need of our small block of votes. WMDs have been found, no not in Iraq, but in the Atlantic Ocean, the US seems to feel that they can willfully use the ocean as a toilet bowl for their spent waste..flush. On and on it goes. The news reel on repeat, a vicious cycle, nothing new here folks, close your eyes, plug your nose, grin and bare it.



So to heck with it, rant all I like, what does it matter, who is listening, who in the know, who in the upper-echelon really gives a hoot? I am going to enjoy the simple things, I am going to tune them out for the day. I will listen to Marvin Gaye, eat some pasta, drink some wine. I will enjoy the company of those I care about. Tonight I am going to pretend that everything is fine. Tonight I smile. Tonight I forget, thats what they want me to do anyway.

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Simple Pleasures

The joy of baking muffins. Of listening to Spanish guitar driven jazz while doing the dishes. Tearing up with laughter while watching an over-the-top comedy that poked fun at everything. Screaming at the sky, rain, rain, rain harder damn it. Last night was a good night. It was a good night because she and made it so by keeping it simple. MMMuffins!! Let it be known that rhubarb is good for the soul.

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Question everything..

It is intellectually dishonest to blindly follow our political, religious, business or educational leaders. They depend on a dumb, blind flock, they peddle their lies because they profit in stupor. I demand that every decision, edict, price change or theory be met with a why? Debate everything, stand up for your smallest and most grandiose ideas. Ask yourself why? It is just as dishonest to blindly cling to one's own philosophies, social mores, spending habits or past learning. Keep your eyes open, listen to everything, debate, always ask why? In the end the only honest answer you will find, is why not?

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Lost in the plot

It has been a struggle for me lately to write. It is not that my life has been mundane, I have been going all out and I have meet all sorts of interesting creatures. It seems that I have been more actor than playwrite. I have enjoyed being center stage, the belle of the ball and the talk of the town. My 'blossoming', enhanced of course by great friends and that certain buzz one gets when the weather improves, is healthy. A writer however, needs to be a recluse in order to produce (a little ten cent poetry there). A writer also has to experience life, they must be smacked by the ridiculous, smitten with the odd and unique, its matter of being out in it and then finding the time to write it all down. A friend of mine thinks that Annapolis 2007 will come pouring out of me as soon as I am away from it for awhile. Maybe she is right, maybe I simply need time to digest, this tiny post must be nothing more then gas or temporary bout of acid reflux...Tums Ta Tums Tums.

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The Mood I am in...

I am drizzly, I am clouded, I am hidden under the umbrella, ever self-consumed. Bored, worried, in need of a random sun burst or a thunderstorm, I need something to clear the air, change the climate. Nothing to worry about, I am simply house-trapped, concerned about finances, pensive of about the future and present. Trying to avoid the mud puddles, the sink holes that I too often fall into. Who am I today? Am I the world beater that I sometime project, or am I the aimless lad, the fella that floats through life, the guy that rarely succeeds, and yet has been known to fail brilliantly. Am I simply whining to whine? Bored by it all right now, missing a certain girl (or 2 or 3), I will sort it out, or at the very least survive, that I always do..I am a surviver, pants will be muddy, face will be red, I will sweat the small and the large stuff and yet tomorrow is another day. Rain in the forecast, who knows what my internal climate might be? Sunny with cloudy periods as usual I bet.

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