I walked out into the world today
And noticed that there was no colour
Above my head
No sun, no hint of blue
Just canvas
And a pail of oils at my feet
There was a note alongside
That little bucket of paints
Telling me
That it was time for me to paint the sky
And colour in everything
That hid behind my eyes
T
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Another post of random bits and thoughts
A few of my own...
All things fiction are borne of reality and live as sparks in a man's heart before they find life in ink and parchment, whether presented in the realistic, fantastic, or mythic.
Some believe that mistakes cut deep and they may do their best to avoid them... but this is true only insofar as the chisel cuts deep through stone to reveal the form hiding therein. Should the sculptor avoid swinging his mallet toward the rock?
And a few quotes from Anais Nin:
"The preoccupation of the novelist: how to capture the living moments, was answered by the diary. You write while you are alive. You do not preserve them in alcohol until the moment you are ready to write about them."
"The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned."
All things fiction are borne of reality and live as sparks in a man's heart before they find life in ink and parchment, whether presented in the realistic, fantastic, or mythic.
Some believe that mistakes cut deep and they may do their best to avoid them... but this is true only insofar as the chisel cuts deep through stone to reveal the form hiding therein. Should the sculptor avoid swinging his mallet toward the rock?
And a few quotes from Anais Nin:
"The preoccupation of the novelist: how to capture the living moments, was answered by the diary. You write while you are alive. You do not preserve them in alcohol until the moment you are ready to write about them."
"The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned."
T
Monday, October 18, 2010
Goodnight.
I'm bidding my city a sort of quiet goodnight tonight, watching the rain pour down over the tile and concrete and glass that surrounds me; I battled through what can only be described as a bout of bitter melancholy today. It was only a day, as I hope for better things to come tomorrow. But the sort of angry, nearly metallic taste still lingers as if on my and makes me dread tomorrow's alarm. It came so quickly today, and I know tomorrow won't be much different. But maybe my dreams will be sweet instead of morose, and my head will rise in contentment instead of jaded frustration. Things pile. And collect. And sometimes you can actually feel their weight. Like a foot on your throat. I felt this today. The weight. And it's of my own making. The only solution: to unmake it. Tomorrow, there's a plan. End.
T
T
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Question-based ramblings...
Just a warning... this is more just an indulgence in streaming the nonsensical things from my brain into print... I haven't thought them through enough to know if they make sense...
***
Why does it feel, so often, like we're examples of mutual exclusion? This one or that one, but never both...
And why does a public expression seem to make for a heretical declaration?
How can a toe in the water make such a wonderful drowning?
What need have we for buoys when gills line our sides?
And what of sunlight when we can see so well under stars and moonlight?
- T
***
Why does it feel, so often, like we're examples of mutual exclusion? This one or that one, but never both...
And why does a public expression seem to make for a heretical declaration?
How can a toe in the water make such a wonderful drowning?
What need have we for buoys when gills line our sides?
And what of sunlight when we can see so well under stars and moonlight?
- T
Monday, October 11, 2010
New looks
Thought I'd try out a new template. I've had the same black background for years now, so I thought it was time for an upgrade. Let me know what you think.
T
T
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Coming down
A journal entry shortly after returning home from my holiday in Shanghai...
***
I'm sitting inside my stillness with pianos and guitars swimming around my ears. I can taste the silence of winter in the night air and for the first time this year I notice how abruptly the sun has run away from the afternoon. It's that silence of a quiet November walk on the west coast in the air, though this Far East home of mine has barely slipped past the advent of Mid-Autumn Festival. Quiet, solo nights lie ahead. Maybe I'll cram them full of chatter and TV and words, and although I can find comfort inside the company of others, I keep my phone silent and ignore the footsteps which may patter outside my door. Night's here... my night, and it's one of those times where home is here while remaining thousands of miles beyond the horizon.
I've been here countless times before, as if standing at the door of my childhood home. But the sense of what awaits me is much different, both cold and friendly, warm and sombre, all at once. I can't decide what colour it evokes... maybe a blue of the wintry moonlit ocean, or of the impossible purple hue in the late stages of a prairie sunset. Maybe it's the translucent black of a clear, starry, moonless midnight. Whatever it is, it remains immense and, while foreboding, is not wholly unwelcome.
I don't bother standing against it, but curl into the corner of the sofa so it can envelope me. I know I'll wake in the morning, possibly in the rays of the sunrise. All that needs to be done is to wait patiently for the warm rise of the early sun in the eastern sky.
T
***
I'm sitting inside my stillness with pianos and guitars swimming around my ears. I can taste the silence of winter in the night air and for the first time this year I notice how abruptly the sun has run away from the afternoon. It's that silence of a quiet November walk on the west coast in the air, though this Far East home of mine has barely slipped past the advent of Mid-Autumn Festival. Quiet, solo nights lie ahead. Maybe I'll cram them full of chatter and TV and words, and although I can find comfort inside the company of others, I keep my phone silent and ignore the footsteps which may patter outside my door. Night's here... my night, and it's one of those times where home is here while remaining thousands of miles beyond the horizon.
I've been here countless times before, as if standing at the door of my childhood home. But the sense of what awaits me is much different, both cold and friendly, warm and sombre, all at once. I can't decide what colour it evokes... maybe a blue of the wintry moonlit ocean, or of the impossible purple hue in the late stages of a prairie sunset. Maybe it's the translucent black of a clear, starry, moonless midnight. Whatever it is, it remains immense and, while foreboding, is not wholly unwelcome.
I don't bother standing against it, but curl into the corner of the sofa so it can envelope me. I know I'll wake in the morning, possibly in the rays of the sunrise. All that needs to be done is to wait patiently for the warm rise of the early sun in the eastern sky.
T
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