On the move...
Past and future posts for this blog have been integrated in http://frothyfilosofy.wordpress.com/ under the category "wistful". I hope you will continue to follow my wistful and wry observations on life.
A river of thoughts snakes through a strange landscape under a pale moon, and that river is me: Sometimes deep and fast, sometimes slow and dreamy, with secret currents that can warm or chill. Spend a while on my banks and dangle your feet in my waters. I am also the snake and the moon. And maybe a poet.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Perseverance
The early morning sun had not yet gathered the strength to begin melting the icicles that adorned the town hall. At the far end of the deserted market square the man carefully and meaningfully lifted his shovel and pick. He took a moment to adjust to this new posture, his propioceptors working hard to establish exactly his place in this icy world. Once established, the shovel and pick rested on his shoulder. He was ready. Step by careful step he began his slow trek across the snow-covered square. Each step was the outcome of a decision, maybe not always a good decision, and one that was subject to revision by the following step as he tried desperately to remain both upright and moving at least in the approximate direction he intended. Who knows to what use this man, intoxicated so early in the morning, would put his shovel and pick? Who knows this man's or anyone else's private battles?
The early morning sun had not yet gathered the strength to begin melting the icicles that adorned the town hall. At the far end of the deserted market square the man carefully and meaningfully lifted his shovel and pick. He took a moment to adjust to this new posture, his propioceptors working hard to establish exactly his place in this icy world. Once established, the shovel and pick rested on his shoulder. He was ready. Step by careful step he began his slow trek across the snow-covered square. Each step was the outcome of a decision, maybe not always a good decision, and one that was subject to revision by the following step as he tried desperately to remain both upright and moving at least in the approximate direction he intended. Who knows to what use this man, intoxicated so early in the morning, would put his shovel and pick? Who knows this man's or anyone else's private battles?
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Stranger in the Village
I walked down the narrow lane to the village. On the edges of snow-caressed fields, skeletal trees stood forlornly in their long wait for spring. Two chickens crossed the road towards me, unaware of the joke. Dogs began to bark. You know you are a stranger to the village when the dogs start barking in the still afternoon. There is something lonely and isolating at this canine betrayal of your "otherness".
I walked down the narrow lane to the village. On the edges of snow-caressed fields, skeletal trees stood forlornly in their long wait for spring. Two chickens crossed the road towards me, unaware of the joke. Dogs began to bark. You know you are a stranger to the village when the dogs start barking in the still afternoon. There is something lonely and isolating at this canine betrayal of your "otherness".
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