Last

This will be my last post on this blog. I may or may not start another one at some unknown time in some unknown future. There are many things I didn’t post on; sex, drugs, rock and roll, the church, everyday happenings. But thats not important, in fact not too much of anything is too terribly important. What is important is Life. People forget to live sometimes, they get involved with everyday and forget to look up, look around and… fucking smile just to smile, laugh because the world is there running in its little gerbil ball around the sun and we’re along for the ride or cry or just stand there and feel your heart beat. I’m talking about being alive not just living, people all over just live, its boring and it kills. There is a quote that floats around, says “live life to its fullest” we forget the important part of that sentence ‘live life’! “Be here now” “Live in the moment”, once again the beginning of those sentences is the important part ‘Be’, ‘Live’. People need to pull their head out of their collective asses and smell the fucking roses! I guess my last post is to be a rant and not a very good one at that. Life is all we have on this earth, its Gods gift that we, of all the animals, can recognise it and enjoy it, sadly we can also destroy it or worse forget about it.

There was a man standing there with a far and distant stare I asked him what he was looking at at and he said shhhh so I took a silent step back, in time he bowed to the horrizon turned and walked away, I smiled, I didn’t expect to see God today.

And so ends this wonderful experiment/experience thank you for your patients.

music memories

You know when you hear a song it brings back memories? Memories of a time or place or of a person, well what else are memories made of… To the point then. When I hear Eric Clapton my father springs almost instantaneously to mind. Memories of hearing that music in his workshop or just around the house. I remember the smell of potatoes cooking in a small kitchen, myself and my sister are running around doing who knows what. I remember 50 watt lighting and the shades drawn. In my mind its always just before dinner and we’re making the last preparations before eating; my sis and I are setting the table, I’m still grumbling about having to peel the potatoes again and my father is finishing up at the stove. Music is an amazing conduit for emotion-memory. A certain sound will remind you of a feeling and a person attached to it, it makes you angry or sad, makes you happy or nostalgic; some music is just air, stuff that has no attached emotion, no point of reference no shared experience between you and the writer, just blah. I get a lot of my musical tastes from growing up, what my friends listened to, what my folks listened to… Music has to have a feeling, it can’t just be empty time fillers.
so in conclusion fuck elevator music and thanks pops.

While the radio was on…

songs song wonderful songs, the sound of music is sweetness to my ears, songs song beautiful songs, the sound of peace and happiness, of joy and suffering and sadness and truth, music sweet music and I wish I could be a part of that, I could be a single ringing harmonic, a sub harmonic that sends chills and moves hearts.

There’s music in the sighing of a reed;
There’s music in the gushing of a rill;
There’s music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
~Lord Byron

the Song the Soul the Poem

Poetry should be heard, spoken and understood. The cadence/rhythm of voice and tongue shapes the picture, Gives life and breath to the jumblePile of words. The poem takes its living seconds from the lungs of the poet speaking. Are you poet? Do you speak? Do you breath? on the Sixth day He created Man and shortly Man created Poem. He sang of Woman; of Growing things and Living things. Poem/Song took life from its creator. God breathed Man, Man breathed life to seconds of Song.

‘Course poetry can be read and understood just as well. If the reader goes at it with out a clue, no idea as to what he is to do with the flow or word list before him. What are these words? They speak to me so strangely. So strongly. I understand them but don’t understand why I understand. Its a subconscious thing, a mindless knowing, this silent awareness. Writer gave life to words, to representations of words and the idea of words. Gave life to this which gave life to a song/poem. The reader sees and the words infect/permeate swim in his mind. They arrange, rearrange themselves into twisted/pleasing configurations and pictures, into other thoughts and ideas and ideas of thoughts and thoughts of ideas. When Writer gives life to images of word, images of poem/song, he pours these into the windows of souls. Into my eyes come the assault of song/poem. Into my mind, willingly embraced, comes the flow of thought/idea. Mind to mind Writer speaks to reader, thought to idea, idea to thought. My eyes are open, my mind empty and waiting.

If Jim Morrison were a rapper: a rap; a poem

we look around and say
“there must have been some design.”
but somebody lost the blueprint
theres no reprint
and our times ill spent
just chasing our tails like rabid dogs
in a flea bitten world
we talk about times
how they were
how they are
never look to see where wer’re going
only see where we’ve been
time keeps flowing
moving
going with singular intent
spiralling down closer to the end
a black hole at your feet
still we look around and say
“there must have been some design.”
we look right and left
we see behind
our tails we chase like rabid dogs
foam flecked lips spatter and spit
empty words we dont repent
we’re just chasing our tails
going round and round
down
spiralling
ending
in a black hole at your feet