Let’s sojourn for a time in our own private purlieus and let our minds effloresce in our incommodious and polymorphous filled bookshelves we often tearing our way through like a bushwhacker fighting his way through a dense jungle. This is not our respite, but our destiny to deny us any repose. We are nothing but mere heathens in our minds.

—WLC

While I write or perhaps before I begin, I look for prompts to inspire me. Sometimes the prompt may only be one word or in groups of words. Sometimes it may be only a scene, picture, thought, or a dream that will not leave my mind and they begin to stream like a short film being played out to some sort of conclusion. Sometimes, there does not seem to be a point to the story, which I must explore to its end—if it ends. On occasions they simply drift away because there was not much there to build upon. Sometimes there is more,

I began with the title then began to build on the fluffed up words that really do exist but for the majority of the readers means very little, but can be found easily in a dictionary. Most of would not even bother but will glean some sort of sense out of the nonsense, much like how we live in the real world where we find people who try to impress by speaking above you, while others will simply try to mimic other forms of speech they are subjected in their regions, or state. Personally, I like play with all of these tools because they help me understand others I come in contact with.

At last count I have been studying twelve languages. Now I am not saying I am good at it, nor am I really proficient at any of them, including English, or at least our Idaho version of English. I say this because when I was in basic training minding my own business, laying on my bunk, before lights out, some shouted, “Hey Idaho!” Until that moment I thought I was alone was from Idaho but promptly three other voices responded, including my own. Later, I would ask how they knew I was from Idaho and they said it was the accent. I surprised because I didn’t know people from potato country had and an accent. Honestly, I still have a hard time cyphering an accent from anyone in Idaho, but I suppose from those on the outside we do. Nevertheless, I like to believe mine has changed a bit because of the languages I have studied, which shows up from time to time when I throw in a bit of slang, or foreign words to make a point which more than likely causes others to say, what or huh?

Now, to the point, which I am really slowly getting to, is that when you write, try to know your audience you are writing to, so they will understand exactly what the heck your are saying, but enjoy the ride of thoughts as you jot them down, and if it gives you joy to write a whole lot of nonsense that only the few bravest will even try to understand—go for it and enjoy the journey. Life is truly way to short to worry about everything.

I have been asked many times to teach some how to draw. Teaching is not my strength, because I simply do what my mind compels me to do, and how that manages to travel from my thoughts to my finger tips, I quite frankly do not know. Nevertheless, I will give it a try and it will be up to you to decide.

Pick up some scratch paper and it does not matter what size, then probably ck up a pencil, pen, or other drawing tool. Keep in mind this practice and not a piece work you hang on the wall, unless you are truly gifted.

I began drawing a s a child the Draw me profile pictures on paper matchbook covers. I don’t know if they do that anymore, but they used to promise you a entry into a art school. They said I was accepted when I was around ten years old. I am also pretty sure I was not that good but it did start me drawing more.

There is nothing like someone coming to bed who feel like they were frozen into a Popsicle. That moment when they touch you and you mind explodes and you are too shocked to scream and your body goes rigid and your mind becomes frantic thinking you may have gone to Hell but rational thought tells this must not be true because it is cold, while you gasp for a breath.

In fractions of a moment it becomes quite clear that you will have to jump up because suddenly you have an urge to pee, yet you know, to quote a winter holiday verse “baby it is cold out there” and you still linger until you cannot hold it anymore. The journey is quick because you are anxious to get back under the covers where you believe it must be warmer under there and you are fully aware that spring and summer are no longer here.

Art is my hobby, along with writing and together they piece together fragments in my life. You know those moments temporarily lost while you are busy helping to fulfill others life. Those moments, not sacrificed, but sitting back in the shadows of your mind where you can pull them out and ponder on them while listening to music, writing, or working on one or more mediums of art. There are no bad seasons of the year, only different seasons of the year. Each are filled with amazing things, if only a person take a moment to look and recall all of the senses that come into play.

Throughout our lives we will see an abundance of the new growing along side the old, and this is the way it has always been. Their is beauty in this embrace with both the old and new. As grandparents or parents we see ourselves in our children and our children’s children elements of ourselves and we delight in these reflections of old in the new. It is the embrace of these things that we recognize that we do not disappear, but in the elements of things we still exist in fragments brought together again.

I look at my calendar and see that many days have passed since I last wrote. My fault, all my fault. I did not intend my blog to be solely about art but rather the creative energy that comes with any discipline which requires creative energy. Sometimes, that can be simply the necessary energy to roll over and slam you hand down on the alarm and fall out of bed so you can drag yourself to the bathroom and get ready for another day.

Recently I pledged that my last day of work would be on a specific day and have labored toward that day, while marking it on my calendar and counting down each day. Sometimes, we begin with great zest in achieving goals only to find that many obstacles are placed in our way preventing, or at least trying to prevent us from obtaining those goals, and your steps weaken and falter and you question your reasoning, “Should I even do this at all?”

I have faltered and my final day will not be on the day I desired but I do still countdown each day to that deadline date. I am writing more and drawing more, and even have a multitude of projects set out for me to work on which I imagine will give me endless joy, but still falter in my stride.

My retirement day has been momentarily set aside, like so many other things awaiting me. I will get there in time and the time will be just the right time. I will not purposely feel a loss in my delay but will strive to make each day a better day in preparation of those sunset days where I have read are both good and bad. Good in that you no longer have to respond immediately to the shrill call of an alarm and you can lollygag your way to through the day, unless you have pressing doctors appointment or coffee time with friends and family. Bad because of the increased free time a person filled up serving others in order to pay the bills now will give you copious amounts of time you will need to fill with something besides annoying the wife or simply waste away while you fill up the space in your chair with more of your girth from not moving enough.

Meanwhile, I will continue to write about those things that matter to mean concerning writing in general, art, and other creative endeavors until I can take all those serious matters of retirement to heart.

—Wayne

Day 331 – On with the fun:

It is hard to imagine but I have been busier than I intended to be, because there is just so darned many things I must get done.

“The only way can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.”

–Margaret Atwood, author of “The Blind Assassin”

I am not certain that this is completely true as I often write and everything I write is true, except when it isn’t and was never meant to be.

Sometime in 2008 I found a note I had made to myself, while I was disposing of things in my office. I believe it was intended to be developed into a poem, which never found the light of day, until now.

“I nodded to a blind man the other day as we passed by each other on the street. I was as pleasant and cautious as I could possibly be, but it was not until we had each passed each other by that he had paid no attention to me.”

I made it a point to share this, as I believe, many of us have good intentions as we go through our daily things, but often forget that others do not see everything as we do. Our kind intentions do not always come across as we intend them, while our silence goes no further than the thoughts in our heads.

Note — There is still a possibility I may simply nod my head to a person who cannot see, providing I do not realize they cannot but more often than not I will wish those I pass by a good day.

Day 339 — The countdown is going great! In a short time I can kick back my heels and watch the grass grow, or the paint peel although February will still be a bit earlier. Still the thought is in my mind and that seems like a good plan for the first day of my retirement. Day two will be different I am sure because I have much I want to still do.

Had a little scare today. I received and email telling me I needed to remove my cookies and told me it would tell me how, but I figured I had that one covered. I rushed home and quickly opened my cabinet and pulled out my latest purchase of girl scout cookies and ate them a quickly as I could although it did take me about an hour, while I watched an old movie on the television. Milk did help them go down a bit easier. I am grateful the packages are not bigger and thank goodness I had only purchased one package of Tagalongs, or it may have been rougher. I swore off dinner to compensate and figured I should be in good shape tomorrow when I open up my computer again for work.

Secretly, I am hoping that tomorrow my email will tell me I need to get rid of that spaghetti in the fridge because it has been calling out for me.

There is a place between pavement and where concrete meet, like the space between a rock and a hard place, where everything is drawn to drain toward the depths where places can only be imagined. It is one of these places where a writer lets their imagination flow among the debris they find and they pause to search for tidbits they can weave into a story, like the single feather mixed with leaves, grass, and seeds.

I remember my four children when they were quite small, the youngest three and the oldest around seven, and their mother was no longer with us, for reasons I will not labor or elaborate upon. it is enough to say she was no longer with us.

We hiked a lot in those early days as I tried desperately to find ways to move beyond the darkness that tried to engulf me. With half breathes on the steep climbs in the foothills around Pocatello, Idaho which gave us a vigorous exercise, even when that is not really your intent, and I would tell my children stories to occupy their time and take the darkness from mine.

On one of our hikes above the water tower to the West of the city we came across some white stones which are quite common in our neck of the high desert, along with a single feather which began the story I would begin to tell them. It was hot, dry and the sun high. Dust would kick up and mingle with scents of dried grass and stunted sagebrush with each step we would take, when we came upon the stones which became Pegasus droppings which had dried hard as stone, and the feather from one of its wings of the Pegasus when it had been startled by noisy hikers and lifted his wings high and wide and possibly flew away. Shush—I cautioned them. Whisper, I whispered, so we would not scare one away, possibly on the trail ahead.

Their voices became quiet and I noticed how some were bright-eyed and looking about as they had found some more Pegasus droppings while I spun a tale that I would never really ever completely recall, but the darkness lifted like the fog dissipating when the sun comes up and drives it away, and those things that troubled me seemed far away, and my children carried little white stones and single feather, and I pray a little more from that trail tale that day.

It is in those quiet moments when you begin the process of looking out at the world that you begin to see what promises await for you out in the world.

As a parent you are just beginning to understand that the most precious gifts are growing and some day will cross threshold and step forward into the world and a moment of both joy and sadness will flood over you.

You will pray for their safety and success along with a special prayer that they will always remember you although the time will not be today, but you will pray all the same.

Last night I picked up my guitar and began to strum and began to wail;

There’s nobody like the somebody I want to be—but baby you got a body I want to see….

I didn’t play long because my fingers tips have been hurting today. Damned Arthur (arthritis) came visiting and decided to stay for couple of days. The greatest wisdom I could impart to someone is do not crush your finger tips while working on a pump crew in your twenties because it is sure to come back and visit you. Breaking you hand is also not very wise, so just don’t do it, which I know is counter to what Nike’s slogan “Just Do It” tells you to do, but I assure you it will feel much better if at times you just don’t do it.

The quote from FDR came to me this morning just before my alarm went off, begging me to get up to shut it off. “The only fear you have to fear is fear itself.” Then I was introduced to fear when I turned on the television and began to watch the morning news. The good news is that we are not yet into World War III, and our entire economy has not yet completely collapsed, but the divisions are growing greater, and hate is getting a stronger foothold.

Shaking off a shudder I sat down all but naked in my writers chair because I did have on my favorite hat. I believe no adventure should be taken solely alone. I began to write in earnest to purge myself of all the thoughts that still lingered in my thoughts from the dreams I had awakened from. It is from these dreams that good things can come. I pushed past the gloom and doom and for a moment shivered because there is a chill in the air. We are still weeks away from spring and the warmth it will bring.