Writer’s Log: 1885 Floatin’

Back when I used to strum a 6 string…
Chords are:
E then A (repeat), Chorus is B7, A, and E, then B7 — E

Floatin’

Lazy we’re layin’, an afternoon snooze.
Cast the balloon, our inflatable cruise,
begins with a whisper, the touching of lips;
sparkling smiles that launch fantasy ships.

Floatin’, floatin’ with you,
Floatin’, stayin’ next to you.

Lift me up, and set me on high.
Sift down a kiss, from a piercing blue sky.
Nudge me to moving, coasting on clouds,
shout to the wind, our love bright and loud.

Floatin’, floatin’ with you,
Floatin’, keeping close to you.

Sailing with seagulls, drifting a breeze,
a feather traced, along taboo a tease.
Weightless we hang, in a passion filled fever,
Dreamin’ together, ’cause never I’ll leave her.

Floatin’, floatin’ with you,
floatin’, holdin’ onto you.

Floatin’, lovin’ with you,
floatin’, lovin’ always you.

 

 


Writer’s Log: 1884 PBBFH

This is a bit I wrote at the end of a vicious emotional extraction, e.g. breakup, way back in my mid-twenties.

PBBFH = Psychotic Blond Bitch From Hell

~~~

Twilight finds me dyin’
from the daggers thrown by you.
Insinuation, lies, deceit
flowin’ blood, I’ve paid my dues.

I see a tear fall from a dark eye
shattering, it strikes the stone.
Your hands reach out to touch me
but grab the knife and twist it home.

The pain has spread, but all pain fades
memories of you are just a shade
of a need I licked, a fix I’ve kicked;
my thoughts of life no longer stick
on your love of jealous jade.

I’ve pulled the knife, healed my wounds
I smile and tilt my chin.
I check the blade, the one you picked
a narrow minded tongue of tin.

A dagger dull to a heart like mine.
I trace the scar and sure enough I find,
that I was only nicked.


Writer’s Log: 1883 Fog

I found a bunch of poems and songs I’d written decades ago. I’ll post these here over a few days/weeks.

Fog

Where the sea meets the sand
 humidity finds
its invisible status
 has left it behind.

A chilling night air
 bumps head to head
with a moist ocean breeze
 and between them they shed
a mist.

A rolling white specter
 so think it’s been dubbed
with an untouchable texture
 an ethereal rub.

Fog is its title
 confusion its wake,
leaving all standing idle
 while the sun works to make
a fist…

To punch through this blanket
 to tear it to shreds,
but remorse moves to thank it
 for fog’s presence led…

Us to ponder our lives
 and their continual rush
to question our pace
 to instill a hush…

As fog’s dearest treasure
 is silence and calm,
a noiseless deep pleasure
 which soothes as a balm
our souls.

 


Reading in one’s own accent

Here’s a strange thought: do we read in our own accents?

If you’re from Boston, or Atlanta, or Winnipeg, or Edinburgh do you mentally verbalize — as you read — in your own accent? That is, does your own mind’s voice speak to itself in the particular accent of your locality?

Got you thinking, right?

Of course, we can (probably) never know the answer. And the question is a bit of a tautology or more so, an impossible question. What happens in our Vegas mind, stays in our Vegas mind.

But to examine the question anyway: when we hear our own voice in a recording we do not notice our own accent. Actors no doubt can detect intentional accents of their own making. But average humans? Everyone else has an accent — not us.

So, I suspect we don’t read to ourselves in our native accent, or none that we can identify. But, perhaps, if we could tap into the biological wires that connect our reading mind¬† / speaking mind to our listening mind I bet we would recognize individual accents. It’s rather intriguing to think that someone from Mumbai is reading to themselves in a Mumbai accent.

It’s concepts like this that, from time to time, drop into my brain and make me wonder.

 


Back to reading…

In lieu of writing (which I’ll have to relegate to the weekends) I’m back to finding quality reading. Two of, what appear to be excellently written novels, I’ve run into (last three days) are The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman — Robin Gregory and Small as an Elephant — Jennifer Jacobson. They’re YA, and short, but so far they are exquisitely written. One can feel the craft applied; few if any words out of place; pace and thrum just right for the story.

Both of these stories border on the literary. Which is where I’d love to ride the rail (some day, fingers crossed). Both I pulled up in Amazon’s Look Inside and read the first few thousand words. “Yup, that rings like a bronze bell.”

So, if you can borrow through your library, or spend the few pence for either of these, I recommend them. They’re not racy or scandalous, nor high intrigue or political conspiracy, but they feel utterly true if fabricated.

The Improbable Wonders of Moojie Littleman: https://robingregory.net/

Small as an Elephant: https://www.jenniferjacobson.com/small-as-an-elephant/

 

 


Old dog: New tricks

I’ve had to take a “real” work-a-day job.

Up at 7 am. There by 8 am. Home by 5:30 pm.

Sitting (and standing) in a CUBE FARM, ALL-DAY-LONG.

Oy!

So, I’ll be wiped for the foreseeable future.

I’ll be learning Microsoft Dynamic AX & X++ for an S&P500 company — maybe it will delay my Alzheimers for a couple of years.

-AM


Adolescent squirrels are spastic

That big Douglas Fir tree there was covered with cones. Two or three Energizer squirrels, young ones with apparently nothing better to do, cut down every cone they could reach. The cones littered the lawn and the mower does not care for them. So I had to collect them. Here you see three bins filled and then dumped back into a pile in the woods/park behind us. These were the cones found only in the yard. The balance the little devils had squirreled away in whatever nook and cranny they could find.

What’s curious is it’s only the young squirrels that do this. The adults? They know there’s nearly zero nutritional value in a fir cone. Within the cones exist tiny seeds the size of sesame seeds, attached to wings that flutter out once the cones have dried to brittle.

But, since they think there’s value in them, I decided not to pitch them. If they get desperate then they’ll find the hundreds I dumped in a pile.