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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| If I had to describe myself in one word, that word would be: awkward. I am awkward in every way. I am socially awkward. I am physically awkward. I have an awkward sense of humor. I say awkward truths in front of people in authority. I hold awkward opinions. And if there is a way to do the normal thing in an awkward manner, I am driven to do it. A few years back, on another writing site that has since disappeared from the interwebs, there was a challenge to write a series of romantic poems based on specific prompts. I think I was already growing weary of this site, for I set out to write poems of great longing and desire, all of which included fish. I wrote poems full of carp and goldfish, all sorts of fish - even angler fish, the kind with a bio-luminescent dangly bit with which they lure other sea life to their mouths full of jagged, sharp teeth. Why fish? Because I was being awkward and daring people to smell what my poetry was made of. Hold your nose, here's a sample: I miss something, when you’ve turned out the light that I should see. But my eyes, unaccustomed In the dark, know the uselessness of sight. Hooded, I perceive only love’s phantoms. You’re the angler fish in my ocean deep In my inky, sunless depths, you were light. I lie awake, wondering, while you sleep Where is that which drew me, that future bright? Was I that hapless creature in the dark, Knowing only a life of rayless gloom? Who fearlessly swam to your dangling spark, And in pursuit of your sun, was consumed? Yes, There is something wrong with me. Just today I wrote a poem to a prompt that required that I use 5 words all starting with the same letter. I used 5 words starting with a silent letter. Was that just to be awkward? No, not really. I thought it would be fun and a challenge, which shows you that I have an awkward definition of “fun”. I suppose that being awkward is my way of daring the world to understand me in my most individualistic moments of philosophical whimsy. I don’t recommend it, though. As a wise squirrel once said: "That trick never works, Bullwinkle". |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts