Theo is NOT here But He is Elsewhere

Looking for Theo? Well, he has moved on from this place and this name and has found a new, revealingly honest expression of his blogself over at http://blog.kimewilliams.com.

Feel free to visit and read some recent poetry, stories, and antics.

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String Quartet

It is a mess at first
The bow strikes and glides across a single string and back again
The note wobbles for a moment
Then settles to a steady call

Joined then by the rocking and striated rhythms
Of another set of strings
And another
Then another

The tatters of sound assemble
Like clouds and squalls
Of a sea storm
Then silence before the storm

Slowly comes the rain
The thunder
The wind
Singing softly its message

We are awash in a sea
Of harmonies and melodies
Here it is useless to navigate
This storm will take us where it wills

Surrender is always
The best option
When accosted
By beauty


-Theo

NOTE: The local Eastern Music Festival brought four young people to play before a group I attended last week. I was inspired to write this piece after their tuning and playing.

Blue Hole-Walk and Talk

Your now seldom trodden paths fall under new feet, withstanding each impact of soul and sole, bearing up upon unyielding and ancient rock the weight of another exploration, an adventuring spirit, another of the millions of creatures that you have felt wander across your very spine, and with thoughtless query your impatient question of 800,000 years rises again...

Will this be the one? Will this be only another impertinent and transient creature that errantly uses the earthy mystery of this space for gathering dirt and stone, or ripping foliage aside for consumption, or splattering in fury, another's blood upon you hoping you will shroud its evil form detection? Or will this one impede the conquest and domination long enough to pause momentarily, stand still enough - long enough to allow your archaic message to creep from the core of this vain of our origination and stir as deeply within them as it resides within you, the tendril of impervious and undaunted myth that is your message?


NOTE: Written after walking the Blue Hole path in Bermuda.

Awarded - Arte Y Pico Award

John has been bestowing stuff again. Among the stuff he has been bestowing about the place is the Arte Y Pico Award… which he has apparently bestowed upon me:





As with all such bestow-able items, it comes with its own list of rules:
1) Pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4) Award-winner has to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award: Arte y Pico.

So here are my selections.

- AP (Alcoholic Poet) - Here you will find RAW passion and an amazing torrent of poets images and angst. I always leave moved and often wrenched.

- Michele - The most amazing community has evolved from her games, welcome and simple hospitality. There is laughter and blogging whimsy here. Her design is simple and crisp.

- Unguarded Utterance - S. L. Corsua writes the some of my favorite poetry on the web. I am humbled by her knowledge, technique and creative power.

-intothequiet - Another Poet and prose writer worth your time. Her community of visitors is packed with talent as well. The design here appeals to be, as well and this blog is easy to navigate.

-Dena Harris - And to prove I love to laugh, I finish with Dena's blog. Dena (she is more than a "cat" writer-really) writes regular and often humorous posts about her life. Her stuff is real if a bit twisted through her creative/retentive/over structured existence.

So now. Get your mouse clicking and visit these fine cyber spaces. Be sure and tell them that they have been award this high and holy honor!

Go. What are you still here for?

Writing Work

A friend of mine has recently helped me get motivated to begin a writing routine. I have a story (maybe a book?) that I started several years ago. I have set a time to write for 30 minutes each day.

It is strange to me how difficult it is to do the work of writing. I love creating the story and the task of putting it to words isn’t that difficult, but something stands in the way of spontaneously writing.

When I first began this work, it was self compelling. I had to make myself stop and do something else. Somewhere along the way, the internal motivation waned and I found myself choosing to do other things.

I believe I am about a good tale and it smacks of a specific genre’ and has a bit of originality. It is worth telling. It is a tale that is alive within me.

So, tell me dear reader, why is it such work to write? What is your take on the passion of creativity turning to the labor of necessity?

Test

Quotable

A happy childhood has spoiled many a promising life. - Robertson Davies

Dolphin Musing

Using a writers prompt, I penned these words. May they bring you some of the peace that they brought me this day.

"Write a one-page description of what it would be like to swim with dolphins."

It seems like more than a few years ago. I stood on the bridge spanning the inlet at St. Augustine, Fl. Statuary of regal lions poised themselves as sentries guarding access, an access now in no need of guards, concrete or otherwise, a mere gateway from one tourist infested section of the town to another.

That evening, late, I stood on the crest of the low bridge and gazed blankly into the grey swirl of sea below. Small caps of sea foam occasionally formed and then faded, improbable punctuations, a writer's words quickly deleted returning the emptiness to the page. I had been unable to write for weeks. My mind blank, no, so filled with images and sensations falling over each other in chaos that no assembly of words could seem to contain my thoughts. So there the formless confusion of my mind was met by its reflection there in the dark sea.

The first one almost escaped my attention. A thin slice of light grey broke the ocean plain, a small twist of foam, and it was gone. I strained to see. I heard the song. At first I thought it was the wind carrying children's voices, softly to my ears. Then I saw them, dolphins. They swam below me, hiding just beneath the sea's veil, shadows, wisps of silver form. I leaned over the railing, dangerously far. They circled below me, entwining among themselves. There where three of them, two adults and a small one. They seemed unaware of anything but their own dance. What grace and poise they created with movements so fluid and quick; touches so gentle and tender.

I fell. Somehow my foothold failed and although I grabbed hold of the rail, my body already hung over the side and my one handed grip wasn’t enough. I tumbled the few feet and into the surf. I felt the sting of the water's chill. It had barely warmed from these early spring days. Something brushed my side and I felt myself being pushed toward the surface. I lifted my head to the night air, rubbed the salt water from my eyes, and as I began to tread water, was astonished to see the smallest of the trio of dolphins floating just inches from my face. It rolled onto one side, exposing one eye to the surface and lifting a fin as if to wave. I laughed. I heard them sing again. A gentle high note that seemed to hang in the air and settle in my soul, even more, it settled my soul.

The two adults were on each side of me now, and as I shifted my weight and began floating on my back, I could feel them moving around me. Soon, there dance included me. I joined them. I swam gently, rolling my body with the shift of the currents, allowing my hands to touch them and then the sea. I closed my eyes and listened to their song and swam with them.

Perhaps it was the caress of the sea, or the magic of the moment, or maybe just the release of my daily constraints, but, my head spun in delight and I felt a drug-like euphoria rise within my being. I was at once lost in bliss and fully present with myself.

Later, they bid me farewell and I felt a bit of sadness as they vanished into the darkness of the night and the vastness of the sea. I know that I found something that night. For even now, years later, I can close my eyes, breathe in the smell of the sea, and hear their song, the song I learned the night I swam with the dolphins.

Summation

I'm holding the dog so it can sleep. What more to life is there?

Amusing Myself

You are dancing again.

Yes.

Have you missed it?

The dancing?

Yes.

Yes, but I have missed other things more.

Really? What?

I have missed the attentive look on your face as you treasure me.

Treasure you? That is a bit assumptive of you.

Perhaps, but I see it tonight in your eyes.

You annoy me sometimes with you self assurance.

I'm not so assured, so confident about most things. But, I know you.

Indeed you do.

Dance with me.

I already am.

Do you love me?

Always.

I'm glad.

So am I, eventhough it keeps me forever troubled.

Troubled?

Perhaps unsettled would be a better word.

If you were not unsettled by me, you would be worthless, you know.

Yes, and sometimes I get tired of the desire, the longing, the …

Amusement?

You make me smile.

I make you laugh.

And dance.

I dance for you.

Thank you.

You make me laugh.

I know. I know. Dance.