Faith

The Great Mystery. There is something called faith. No matter what life path they have chosen, faith stirs that spark of survival - the will to live another day.

Lost

... Lost: Inspiration
May have dropped on a cement walk during a storm in the morning on Schit Street
A chance it will be found battered on Phucku Cres.
or trampled on Soulpimped Ave.

Inspiration will be of no use to anyone if you don't have the knowledge of how to operate.
***so please return to Emptyhead Industries on Fruit Road.

.....its snowing out there

Listening to So Long Marianne by Leonard Cohen)

The snow has arrived and with the unpredictability of today's weather pattern no one knows if nature's blanket will remain or melt into the ground to expose the sleeping earth to its death. But what hasn't changed, and I don't imagine will ever change, is the excitement in the the little boy's voice as he jumps and proclaims "It's snowing!" As the world moves on its way around a little one there is little to deter the young mind from seeing the wonder and beauty in everything. No matter what the world is puking up. (I see that sentence and can't help but 'leave it'.) I read somewhere in the beginning of my studies in old dusty literature, too see the world as a child with mature innocense. The exact wording is not what sticks its the message it leaves that matters. I have been pulled into each morning with a slight ache of unfed desire for a life that I have never known. Then....sometime during that moment or sometimes when I am trapped in the illusion of my sleep ... I remember. Its my experience, my life, that is the innosence and my willingness to live it the best I can is the maturity.

And I Write

I now have 44 pages of 'poetry' or strings of words that vary in stream and rhyme. Must not sabotage this move forward.

I never know when the moment will arrive. In that moment I write and even I don't believe it came from me.

Not much the hand wants to type today in generalities. I want to edit and write more strings.

Key: Write. Write. And write some more. No thought to the direction but once the direction arrives flow into it with no restriction. No editing. No correcting or deflowering the freedom of the unfolding journey of writing.

Bukowski

Life is funny. One minute you are feeling like the party started without you and the next you realize the party was planned just for you. I have lived a full life with alot of adventure, pain, happiness, tears of sadness, and unending smiles for living. Alot of cliches, more than I can stand, but a life all the same.
I read an interesting poetic statement by Margaret Atwood the other day. It describes her journey to the writer in her. The inevitable pull to the wine drinking, cigarette smoking, paris seeking writers of her time and time passed. The desire to mingle with the risk takers and create the voice of a poet that would shock and portray an interesting 'writer's life'. Well, she found it, in the details of her life after the delayering of personalities acquired through the search for the writer in her. It is the presentation and perspective of the writer that entices the reader to continue reading. Bukowski presented the world with a dirty old man with a crude mouthful at every spit of drunken philosphy. Yet...it was interesting to experience his perspective of the world through the eyes of one in the middle of what most tried to avoid. It was no risk to him it seemed just his way and perspective and it caught on. I speak of Bukowski because he seems to surface in the work of new emerging poets where ever I go. I do admit I went through a time when he intrigued me to the point of purchasing all his books where ever I could. It was the feeling of raw truth...albeit his truth...that kept me wanting more at the time. I was pulled into his madness with a desire to find my own madness. This is where I found the writer in me. I projected all my filth, misery, and sweetness into lines that projected my reality. For a short while i experienced a freedom. Then I realized the journey was just in its infant stage. There would be more to come as my memory replayed forgotten or buried remnants of madness that just wouldn't be served best without continued maturing in the craft. I continue. I venture into the perspectives of writers to remind myself of that freedom....to be mad....my madness is a safe place for me. There is no good to it nor is there bad to it...it just is for me. I need it to be the writer I am. My words thrive on the madness around me. I write to live in the madness around me.

So Bukowski, the dirty old man spitting drunken philosphy, knew what he was doing in his own mad way.

I screamed last night!

I screamed last night
to the god
in skies of blackened eternity
an icicle cry
with a forever tear.

I screamed last night
to the god
to awake a surrendering
heart.

a wave in an ocean
to drown my sadness
in the skies of blue warmth
a peaceful sigh
with endless faith.

Life Passions

Today there is only one thought lingering in and out of my day so far....passion for life. This is so important. The dreams that excite you each morning. The butterflies that quiver the center of your being each time you think of reaching for more.

Today, all I have to do is believe I can have this in my life again. To be passionate about something, anything. I love to write. I love to create lines of my uneducated poetry, ranting maybe but still written thoughts...mind paintings. I love to wander into the life of a character in an unfolding script. I love to read the words of writers from centuries ago sharing emotions, fears, and realizations with the world and oblivious to the fact that these same words would be sitting in front of me .... in 2008! Amazing. A legacy. Their passion. I just want to keep this thought today.

Just hoping the power won't be disconnected anytime soon. Or the phone for that matter. Still looking for a job. Still writing down my ramblings.

'cursed with inherited sadness'