I was deep into my time at the farm. I had nearly forgotten what it was like to wake up in my own room or sleep late. I was living a dorm life in a farmhouse. The rules and regulations were never my favorite. Neither was the showering times or the bathrooms.
I have to admit it, like it or not, the replacement of time was me, away from my regular home in a quasi-institution.
Yearly Archives: 2020
A Special Note
Just so you know . . .
the world is a better place because you’re in it.
If you ask me, you compliment the world.
You fit perfectly in spite of what you think sometimes.
Trust me on this one.
The Best Investment
The question is what’s in a word?
What is in a word that we invest so much in or allow them to either build or destroy us?
Why do we give in so often or allow what someone says to define or decide how we live, think, act or feel?
What is it about a simple word or what people say that can either build us up or rip us apart in the blink of an eye?
A word can change the face of the day. A word can change perspective. A word can bring a smile or cause a tear.
Letters from A Son: Dear Mom 6/10/20
I know it has been a while since my last letter to you. So much has happened and I’m not sure if I know exactly where to begin.
I’m not even sure if you would believe me if I told you, but anyway, here it goes, Mom.
Are you ready?
I’m not sure if you get the news where you live but life has been interesting down here to say the least.
There Is No Mistake
There is no mistake anymore. In order to move ahead there has to be a strategy. There needs to be a plan because there is no more room for guess work. We already know what we don’t want.
We know about the things we don’t want to feel.
There are times (like now, maybe) when the world is still moving. The sun is out and everyone is living life, but yet, deep down, there is a piece of darkness on the inside that overshadows the light that brightens our path.
Just a Thought: 6/8/20
I am reminded of a quote from Shakespeare. He said, “Civil blood makes civil hands unclean.” It seems all of our hands are a little dirty sometimes. It seems like everyone has an opinion. Everyone has an agenda.
Meanwhile, the world is still turning. Life is still going on and you, me, us, and everyone else in the world is still trying to find their way in this crazy place. Such is life down here on Project Earth.
My Utopia
I watched an airplane fly off into the sunset last evening. Its wings lifted as the plane turned southwest to fly off into parts unknown.
Usually, I see this and imagine sitting in an airplane with my seat leaned back and my tray-table down. I envision myself going somewhere or anywhere but here.
From The Boys: The Last Of The Hoodlum Days
It was just another morning before noon in my town. I was walking towards home after a crazy night and trying to piece together the events from the day before. Randy pulled up in a white van. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail with a blue bandanna wrapped around his forehead.
Randy’s eyes were bloodshot and red. He was already fueled up after drinking from a bottle of 80 proof cheap whiskey. He was ready for trouble. This was for sure. But then again, so was I.
The music was blaring from the radio. There was a lit Marlboro cigarette hanging from his teeth with a long ash that was slightly bent and curved downward. As Randy pulled up, a cloud of smoke poured from the passenger window. The smell from the smoke proved the end of an obvious smoking session that Randy just finished.
Nautical Medication
Ever fish out at sea by yourself?
I was about 8 to 9 miles southeast of the Jones Inlet. The sea was mainly calm with a steady roll of slow-moving waves that swelled beneath the boat. It was quiet.
The air was clear but the sky was gray. Yet, there was no threat of rain. It was just quiet is all. There is no other way to explain it.
A Little Truth
Every so often I get calls, late at night, and on the other end of the call is a desperate voice from a desperate person in the middle of a desperate time. They speak as if I can immediately recognize their voice. Sometimes it’s easy to tell. Other times, I have to listen for a while.
I never ask who it is. I just listen and let them talk until I figure this out on my own. This never takes long.
Sometimes the person is crying. Sometimes the person is talking in a low tone, afraid that someone might hear them and they’re paranoid about some exterior force with some ulterior motive.
Oftentimes, the person is incoherent or drunk or sick or on the run and trying to keep themselves from being locked up in a cage.
The Written Addiction 