Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Street Beat / Photographic Sound


Shoes on pavement

                            Ears plugged tight

Spacing to the music 

                   Grooving to the sights

Soundtrack for this moment

                      Natural synthetic mix

Driving forward motion

                     Winding empty streets

Sunlight fading quick


                                Vibrating in time

Home calling me

                             Bare rhythm rhyme

(Photos accidentally taken on the evening of Monday, March 30, 2015 while trying to adjust the volume of my music and forgetting the camera was on)

(Words written on the morning of Tuesday, March 31, 2015 because I didn’t want my blurry sidewalk photos to go to waste)

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Dirty Colorful Underwear (or 1 after 101)

I sit with the combined sounds of washing and drying filling my ears.  Rotating, whishing, spinning and clunking along with my thoughts.  Thoughts of writing seem to be dominating what is left of my mind.  

This blog is nearly two years old and includes over 100 posts. Looking back, each year can be categorized under a specific label. 2013 was the year of the blog serial.  2014 was the year of the short story.  2015 is quickly establishing itself as the year of so-called "poetry" or short subjects, as I prefer to call them.  Of course, this is an unhealthy generalization of my words and should not be encouraged, even if it is true.

Lately, I've been asking myself, "What do I want?  What do I expect from all of this?"  To find readers is the easy, go-to answer, but I believe the painfully honest answer is to be remembered.  Whether it is autobiographical writings or my various fictional characters, the idea of leaving something of myself behind is appealing.  

Of course, there is no guarantee of being remembered.  How many writers have passed on, having written brilliant novels, but are now relegated to the shelves of the forgotten?  How many writers, having bled their soul through words, die undiscovered...unknown? I don't have the answers, but I suspect the numbers would be staggering and depressing.

Will my serials, short stories, or short subjects be remembered?  I haven't a clue, but whether driven by delusion or madness, I keep pressing onwards.  There are more tales I desire to tell, so I must leave my doubts, wants, and expectations hanging on the line to dry, allowing the breeze to carry them far away.

Here is to another 100+ posts...(clink)

Be well & Freak Out,

P.S.  No orange socks were lost in the writing of this post.