http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GZ81-wOgbg(Video - Never Ending Story)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
In A World Without Spices.
(Samaya Lubimaya)
In a quiet town where whales ride the walls, time has left this establishment with no changes, no outside influences, no spices.
It is chilled out and the town looks nearly barren. I venture down an old cobbled street in hopes of finding a tavern. There in the distance burning bright, I spot a flaming torch set up outside an old farmhouse, an inviting gesture to the cold world outside. This common meeting place for travelers and locals alike sits right off the rocky coast. I walk in and undo my scarf and long coat. The picture of the old fisherman with his cap and smoking pipe greets me on the wall. All the furniture is a luscious greenish blue, intricately carved wood in ancient runes, with reds and blacks to detail. There is even a Lord & Lady chair which resembles that of a miniature four post bed. I look past the sills out over the greenery that lays above the vast darkened blue cold waters and choose my place of dining to see this common theme.
Another wayward soul comes in, leaving the door to a little clatter with the wind at its hinges. The suit is brown with yellowing pinstripes. He carries an old, obviously very used, brown leather box suitcase for papers. It matches his vintage brown leather curtail jacket. The mystique is that of a professor, a man of great knowledge, maybe even an archaeologist. I don't recognize his dialect, not even the language spoken. I confer that I am just as out of place as he, I suppose. Yet his style and countenance is a bit of awe rarity in any place, any era.
The fishermen brandish their wages and the simple eatery offers all of their catches. I am served a tradition of time cooked meal. Salted fish, cod to be exact, with the skin and bones not breamed. Boiled potatoes and carrots. No salt, no pepper awaits this bland layout of what the commoners enjoy. Yet, bits of chunked tasty bacon in its own oily fat lays over the fish, making it a spread of interest.
I think to myself of this simple unrefined lifestyle in comparison to what I am used to. Here, in this rainy grey fishing village, lies a world without spices.
In a quiet town where whales ride the walls, time has left this establishment with no changes, no outside influences, no spices.
It is chilled out and the town looks nearly barren. I venture down an old cobbled street in hopes of finding a tavern. There in the distance burning bright, I spot a flaming torch set up outside an old farmhouse, an inviting gesture to the cold world outside. This common meeting place for travelers and locals alike sits right off the rocky coast. I walk in and undo my scarf and long coat. The picture of the old fisherman with his cap and smoking pipe greets me on the wall. All the furniture is a luscious greenish blue, intricately carved wood in ancient runes, with reds and blacks to detail. There is even a Lord & Lady chair which resembles that of a miniature four post bed. I look past the sills out over the greenery that lays above the vast darkened blue cold waters and choose my place of dining to see this common theme.
Another wayward soul comes in, leaving the door to a little clatter with the wind at its hinges. The suit is brown with yellowing pinstripes. He carries an old, obviously very used, brown leather box suitcase for papers. It matches his vintage brown leather curtail jacket. The mystique is that of a professor, a man of great knowledge, maybe even an archaeologist. I don't recognize his dialect, not even the language spoken. I confer that I am just as out of place as he, I suppose. Yet his style and countenance is a bit of awe rarity in any place, any era.
The fishermen brandish their wages and the simple eatery offers all of their catches. I am served a tradition of time cooked meal. Salted fish, cod to be exact, with the skin and bones not breamed. Boiled potatoes and carrots. No salt, no pepper awaits this bland layout of what the commoners enjoy. Yet, bits of chunked tasty bacon in its own oily fat lays over the fish, making it a spread of interest.
I think to myself of this simple unrefined lifestyle in comparison to what I am used to. Here, in this rainy grey fishing village, lies a world without spices.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Death.
An unlikely person dies without just cause. There is a book to sign your name in - to commemorate it... How strange.
Life is so beautiful, I would be angry at death if it came to take me too soon.
One side celebrates the life, while the other side is proper in mourning. They do not understand each other. One is proper, formal, procession - like these peoples and their signing of a book. The other has a fest with food and laughter, along with the sharing of good times and memories - to honor the person in death.
Others consider a certain age the celebration and donn everything red.
It is inevitable. It will happen to us all. Nothing to fear, nothing to set aside a set belief for. Just a part of the big life picture and another journey. Perhaps, another life.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I Had No Pen, Therefore I Write In Pencil.
The red rock glares down.Like an eye in the mountainous sky.
Tears flowing horizontally.
Trickling across the multitude
Of browns and dark hues.
Tears flowing horizontally.
Trickling across the multitude
Of browns and dark hues.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Bewildered.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_c2_aAWAxZ8
(Blow Out - Radiohead & The Posies / Video - Alice In Wonderland)
(Blow Out - Radiohead & The Posies / Video - Alice In Wonderland)
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Dream Of A Writer.
Wouldn't it be... no that's not it. Erase. Start again.
To sit as a famous author would. In some solitary place given only to inspiration. Perhaps a cabin amongst the forest. Maybe overlooking a lake, better yet the ocean. Any scene true to nature, in simplicity. This is where it would begin, surely. I have such a story to tell, yet no time and nearly not as much funds. So to ponder or dream of being a famous writer to achieve this great feat would be well... just what is needed. I could be unaffected by persons, daily nuances, mundane happenings, and truly use the time alloted to create.
I sit facing out the large window overlooking my mountainous landscape. I have just prepared a fresh meal of scampi drenched with lemon, butter and garlic. Topped with a green onion and green squash relish over a bed of hot steaming jasmine. I pull out my best silverware, something of a tradition and making the food taste all the better. I pour a glass of cola to accompany my meal. Then I pull out one of the several great books I am reading and lay it open on the table in front of me. A sense of perfectness appeals to me, as I delve into this common theme and I most certainly enjoy the reading as much as the eating.
This feeling must surely be the same acquired by those famous writers as they sit to begin their epic tale in their serene chosen landscape, as their laptops beam just a second away. Or does one actually write with pen and ink (as I do my journals) at all these days? I guess the choice is based on what the writer feels appropriate. This time, and if given the chance to prove an epic tale worth while, I would use the beaming glint of technology. It is easier to compose and cuts half the time of transferring data. I have actually started this tale, about 3 years ago. And, the inspiration is most certainly devouring me. Yet I haven't had the time to put into it what it needs to see it through. Everything takes money, so I can not just say I'm taking a year off work to finish a novel. I can't take a year, or however long or little it takes to complete such a task, away from everything or everyone... can I?
The dream of this writer is to somehow find what the famous authors have managed. To have the opportunity to have the time and the means of support to finish their book, unhindered and without detours.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2BUkodK2UU
(She Moves In Her Own Way - The Kooks)
I sit facing out the large window overlooking my mountainous landscape. I have just prepared a fresh meal of scampi drenched with lemon, butter and garlic. Topped with a green onion and green squash relish over a bed of hot steaming jasmine. I pull out my best silverware, something of a tradition and making the food taste all the better. I pour a glass of cola to accompany my meal. Then I pull out one of the several great books I am reading and lay it open on the table in front of me. A sense of perfectness appeals to me, as I delve into this common theme and I most certainly enjoy the reading as much as the eating.
This feeling must surely be the same acquired by those famous writers as they sit to begin their epic tale in their serene chosen landscape, as their laptops beam just a second away. Or does one actually write with pen and ink (as I do my journals) at all these days? I guess the choice is based on what the writer feels appropriate. This time, and if given the chance to prove an epic tale worth while, I would use the beaming glint of technology. It is easier to compose and cuts half the time of transferring data. I have actually started this tale, about 3 years ago. And, the inspiration is most certainly devouring me. Yet I haven't had the time to put into it what it needs to see it through. Everything takes money, so I can not just say I'm taking a year off work to finish a novel. I can't take a year, or however long or little it takes to complete such a task, away from everything or everyone... can I?
The dream of this writer is to somehow find what the famous authors have managed. To have the opportunity to have the time and the means of support to finish their book, unhindered and without detours.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2BUkodK2UU
(She Moves In Her Own Way - The Kooks)
Friday, April 3, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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