Music to my ears

I verily like, paper, that crinkles. There is just something about it that makes you want to fold and unfold, take it out of your pocket and open it again. Just to hear the music that comes to our ears and soothes the soul. And the sound of writing, as the pencil taps down on the table, over and over again. Making little scribbles that some see just as words and others, pleasant little nothings that draw the mind off into the ramblings of imagination. And you cannot forget the sound of the crayon, everytime you press down and lift up. There is that little ´slick´that you hear followed by scrawls of mostly young artists, but artists all the same. And all is quiet but for the sustained crinkle of paper, the tap of a pencil, the ´slick´of a crayon and the soft unconsious breathing of an art that is not in vain. That is why I like to write.

(Written on a lovely piece of paper that crinkled, with a blue pencil crayon; a very nice crayon drawing is on the other side; with the primary colours of blue, yellow, green, and of course pink)

(posted from myspace. created November 21, 2007 9:10 a.m. Cochabamba, Bolivia)

Living For Something

So I'm living this life, so big and huge and wide and awesome. And it's good; really, really, good. Life's good and everything's goin good and I'm feeling it, just washing over me filling me up and taking me away. This amazing life. And all I have to do is just live it, this life of mine. Each day moves along without any help from me. All i have to do is wake up each morning and take each day as it moves along. Sometimes so fast I'm just skimming the surface, skipping over the bumps that come my way, the good life. And then I'm draggin along, bogged down and feelin hopeless and i turn too slow to miss the big waves and swamped for just a moment until someone finally sees me and pulls me up and over the waves. Those are the moments that just drop down on us until we shake ourselves free. Free to live again and to soar higher than ever before. Gary Allen said it perfect when he sang, "Life ain't always beautiful, but its a beautiful ride." So thats the way I'm living right now. Takin life one day at a time, one hand ready to just reach out grab those moments that i can hold onto forever. Each day, i get up and i'm ready to greet the world, to take the good and bad and search out the little things that make me smile and break into laughter. That's what makes life worth livin, whoever dies with the most crinkles in their smile wins. That and making others smile. So thats what i'm gonna do just live for the smile.

(posted from myspaces. created September 6, 2007 2:23 a.m. Edmonton)

Sunday Stirrings

What is there to compare with waking up to the sweet cansiones of multi-coloured pajares, and sunlight streaming through the window at the rising of Mr. Sol. And then settling back on the pillows, thoughts just drifting on by. Broken only by prayers for the unborn, so wonderfully crafted by our Heavenly Creator. Breakfast in a sunstreamed kitchen. A spot of tea with cinnamon and the sweetness of raspberry jam on toast. Tidy up. Getting dressed. Even made the bed. A very nice blue shirt. Cotton. But ironed into silk. Matching shoes, pants, jacket. The nice leather one that fits almost perfect. Fuss with my hair, which hasn't seen a comb in 10 years. Ahh, presentable, one last glance in the sitting room mirror. Bible.... check. And I turn the handle on a soft green door, and walk into a beautiful day. So how do I describe it; as I walked out the front door. A breath of fresh air, and I am on the street. A few steps, the wind is blowing. And I am hit, almost knocked down, but I manage to stagger along. Why does it hit me so hard? This wind that ever so gently speaks of spring and fall. My emotions are whipped around, and I am no longer on the street. I'm walking up the path to the big log house. Spring is here and I cannot express the feelings that come from the sights, sounds, and smells of it all. I am intoxicated like no other man. And as I struggle to regain my breath thats been taken away, I return to the street, with the senses moving whistfully on. I don't know why I am affected so much by a simple wind carrying along a spring breeze. But I am. Maybe it is good memories of times gone past. Maybe the distance brings out the nostalgia that brings tears to my eyes. But whatever it is, I wouldn't miss it for the world. I don't dwell in the past, but the memories are so warm and real. And all I can do is give thanks to the one from whom all blessings flow.

(post originally comes from journal entry: Feb 26, 2007 10:40 p.m. Cochabamba, Bolivia)