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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. |
| I am running a little late this morning. I think I will need to make a second cup of coffee before attempting this blog entry. There. The nice thing about blogging is that I can leave the room, go make coffee and you can't tell that I have been gone. Just one more reason to blog instead of doing Facebook Live or something. There are other reasons, too, but they are similar - like blogging in your pyjamas or the freedom to be incognito and unseen. I have been doing social media for a long time, but I generally stick with those platforms that are designed to let you share in text rather than pictures. I know Facebook allows one to post endless selfies, but it's not necessary to do that in order to use it successfully. I don't go to Instagram, for instance, because I don't record my day in photographs or video. I don't take pictures of myself and nothing in my life is interesting enough to bother filming. Worse, I have seen what Snapchat and other apps do to you with their filters. Sure, it's funny if you use the bunny filter because we pretty much know you don't have long, floppy ears or whiskers. But those glamour filters are more deceptive. I have come across photos of relatives in which they appear much younger than they were the last time I saw them. And there's something magical, yet disturbing about their eyes. A little like Polar Express but with more twinkle. These filters lie to the world about you. They are also addicting. Once people use them, they can't stop because returning to their real images would be such a let down for those whose eyes don't really sparkle or contain an exact replica of the Milky Way. Also, we've all seen how a random Zoom filter nearly derailed an attorney's appearance before a judge when he appeared to be a fluffy, white cat. That's embarrassing. Now, I am not going to say that I am perfectly content with the sight of my aging self. So much less potential for improvement, however, makes it easier to resign oneself to. I know that no matter what I do, how I diet or exercise, I will still be old and wrinkles happen. Plastic surgery is expensive. Filters erase the wrinkles and smooth the ravages of time, but they are creepy. I am just going to stick to being invisible and let my words stand for me. If not for hiding behind, I have no idea what the internet is for. |
| This week’s media prompt is a video of Lovesong by The Cure. I had never heard this song before, so I spent a little time researching and reading the lyrics. It’s always a challenge to read lyrics because they are usually repetitive and less complex poetically as they rely on the music to bring another level to their meaning. I was surprised that the music was slow and sad, while the lyrics proclaim the good things that love was doing for him. Then I learned that band member Robert Smith had written the song as a gift to his wife for their wedding. That put another angle on it, and the serious nature of the music made more sense. I don’t suppose anything has inspired so much poetry as love. When we are in love, we desire to express it, we have to let all these overwhelming emotions out before we burst. Some love poems are elegant such as How do I love thee, let me count the ways… (Elizabeth Barrett Browning). Some attempt to convey the inexpressible as in e.e. cummings’ somewhere i have never travelled which uses unique and deeply moving metaphor. But the teenager who is experiencing a first crush is every bit as sincere in their poetic declarations, even if they lack skill at expressing them. I have written love poetry and even more amazing is that poems of love have been written to and for me. Each poem attempts to express love in terms as beautiful as love feels. It’s not easy and we are not all equally adept at poetry as the Brownings, Byron, cummings, Shakespeare, etc. But there is no one who would not appreciate the sincere pleadings of a heart, however conveyed, especially as we approach Valentine’s Day. Have you attempted romantic poetry or given a poem to your beloved? Something crafted from true feeling can easily outshine any gift of flowers or candy. I am including links to some poems of mine that deal with romance and its complications. Mature Love
Secure Love
Nostalgic Love
Paranormal Love
and... Disappointing Love "Complimentary Closing"  Whatever kind of love you have or wish for, I hope everyone has a happy Valentine's Day. If nothing else, it's a good excuse to eat chocolate. |
| I woke up this morning with wonderful words and lines for a poem going through my head. Of course, most of it is lost to the brain fog that takes brilliant ideas with it when it clears. By the time I got to the bathroom, I remembered only two words of it. Ah well, that's two words more than I had written before. It's rather good that I am here again this morning. I am keeping up with my goals, even though I didn't enter them at the Weekly Goals forum. I kept disappointing myself there. I need to whip myself into shape before I parade my ambitions in public. The white down on the tree limbs was replenished last night with a fresh snowfall. It's strange to finally experience all the beauty of winter as we can see spring approaching on the calendar. We've turned that corner and even the groundhog's shadow can't stop the inevitability of it. I feel sorry for the birds who arrive early to begin the preparation of nests and plan for their spring broods. I know they are there because the cat chooses windows that look up into the trees and sits there from before dawn, staring up at the activity that only her alert observations can detect. I am going to see if I can figure out how to make some keto pancakes and brew another cup of coffee. Then, I can start my day in earnest. |
| The same thing happened this year as it did last year. I was humming along, writing daily and producing. I produced daily poetry, short stories, reviews, even blog entries - then my real life exploded. And even when things began to get on an even keel, I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't concentrate, couldn't write, couldn't produce. Falling out of a writing habit is worse than falling off your diet. It's twenty times harder to get back to disciplined writing than it is to make yourself eat unappetizing food. It's easier to write down calories than a few lines of poetry. I guess that discipline and writing never seemed to go together for me. They probably do, but I have this dream of a bohemian creativity that strikes or doesn't in its own arbitrary fashion. I imagine that is just my excuse. I have no solution except to start writing. And where better to begin that in the hated blog? The blog that is avoided and shunned because it reminds me of my neglect. So, every day I will start here with some paragraph or other about nothing. No one will be expected to read it. But it's good exercise, even if it just helps me remember how to type. |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts
