Show don't Tell

So you think you can dance? can paint? can write? all of which takes dexterity and technique to 'show' the inner life , to show the 'light', the poetry, the song of life. How, you ask. Ignore the What of your performance. Just Do. Word power can be transitory.
Looking at the core of reality is a reach for the inner spirit
of the human need to love...how not what... otherwise we ape the past
without adding new meaning and your 'art' is lifeless.
Sentimentality gets you nowhere.
Show Purpose (action) moving toward its desire.

Outtakes’ of a Diary

A trail mix of memories with footprints indistinguish-able crowds my thinking, thoughts like anniversary specials tucked away in catalogues. The Japanese architectural students from Tokyo snapping photographs smile agog at what they see...artifacts from around the globe, north, south, east and west...a living museum, the tri-fold brochure explains in fine print alongside the walking map guiding them over the personal garden, like George the cat on a mission walfting his golden tail, leading the pack across the green grass.

Raindrops

A subdued day, not a bird in sight, a pause before the storm. The cats sleep and the dog rests, a tennis ball inert on the grass. We sip hot tea and traffic hums far off in the distance. A twig cracks, no one moves as if out on the Serengheti, saving energy for the instant...claws are out.

The cat grabs the fountain pen and twirls it ...no running in the house, the neighborhood dogs bark, air quality shifts, traffic build up roars, the day has begun...editing the mysteries of why suddenly the cat is up in the tree.

Magpie's nest

Upstairs and downstairs equipped with jokes and tangential remarks, missing the point sounding like a New Yorker identifying a provincialism having lived on the East side of the Hudson River. When I grew up and moved back to The Villa I didn't think a thing about it as a child running loose, the wind cooling my face to meet my great grandfather and his pet goose. Dodging dried up toads in the middle of the dirt road bridging the old canal I swam on my own...the place where I was born and learned about the magpie's nest.

Dog days of August

I've been doing clean up. My life is controlled by Fujiko...so innocent as she leaves a trail of paw prints throughout carrying her power chewer delukes. Now laid back she wiles away the morning hours whipping away her teething rope, left to right with a straight shot to the swimming pool for a quick drink...par for the day...just a little brutal, her touch noses with the cats and then it's off to dig a hole for her plastic turquoise bone.

Awakenings

Sleepy eyed the house waits for fall. You could have fooled me the day reigns cool among the smoke filled sky where the birth of modernism pulls in its horns to the sounds of birds, the last of the summer's season declaring the 'shoulda, woulda, coulda' fueling political debate now in a comatose state, saying 'straighten up your line' before the children march into the classroom.

Moment Forms

Creating moment forms have a cumulative effect like a piece of music, dance and poetry that can stand on their own or fall into a chronological order signifying more than paradoxes but inclusively calls attention to the moment and our place within
the blogosphere universe...so you want to go fishing? California is calling.