A Wink Will Do

As I was coming into the house after bringing my daughter home from an event. I looked up, and there they were, stars.

Haven’t seen stars in a long time. These  days I’m in before dark, exciting life.

Said hello to the stars. Wasn’t expecting it, some of them blinked. Kinda nice, I thought.

The conversation ended there. Distance, volume, language, the usual reasons.

But, it was very nice to be acknowledged by the stars. Makes me feel good.

Sort of special.

The Ghost

Well, I’ve given up the ghost. Haven’t written anything in ages. Tonight will not change that. Wish it would, but wishing is only for kids, right?

I’ve had too many wishes smother under  piles of spent fairy dust. They all weren’t outlandish wishes. Sure, some were, but when I wished, I was a kid. Everything was real, in an imaginary way. I dunno, you figure it out.

I’m depressed. Not about not writing, I mean depressed as in, Depressed.

Let me see if I can share how I feel.

Sad, heavy, dark, as in inky bottomless liquid. Hope, huh? Not a good place to be, I hate it here, but it will pass.

No worries friends. Have no thoughts of hurting myself. Just at the bottom of cesspool of despair, so dark seeing any light, or feeling any warmth is impossible. Heck, I can’t even see the tunnel. If I could see the tunnel, maybe I’d be able to see that light everyone talks about. Probably not.

Well, that was light reading, wasn’t it?

It’s Been Awhile

Well, it’s been a long time since I posted anything, and with good reason. I had nothing to say. That is, I had nothing to say that would have been interesting. Tonight, will be different.

I have three passions in life, music, photography, and writing. Other’s have told me I’m very talented in the first two, and as far as writing, well, it’s a work in progress.

Street Photography, is currently where my interests lie, and strangely enough, there’s a story that each picture tells. Let me explain. When I see something that interests me, immediately a story flashes in my mind, revolving around the object I’m going to shoot. The story ends in a few seconds, and I approach the subject, with the story as my frame of reference.

So, tonight I’d like to share some of my recent work.

Whether my gut reaction to the bench prompted an apt story is for you to decided. The wonderful thing about photography is that each picture tells a different story to its’ viewers.

The Empty Bench – St. Patrick’s Day, in Bethlehem, PA, was not a great weather day. It was cold, cloudy, with scattered showers, and a pinch of snow.

I parked my car four blocks away from the parade route, and the rain had just begun to moisten the air. I knew I didn’t have a lot of time to shoot, then I saw this bench.

Just a few blocks away, people were chatting, and chattering, while they waited for the parade to begin. Children laughing, grandmothers hugging the little ones, and parents looking down at the touching scene before them. But, this bench saw none of that.

It just sat there, all alone, but looked beautiful in it’s solitude. In just a few months, the bench will be host to numerous visitors unti winter settles in once again. But, in the meantime, it sits there alone, peaceful, a reminder that there is beauty in just being.


The Bench Has Friends – As I stepped back, I noticed some other stoic objects waiting for their chance to be used. The street post, tall and straight, stands ready to throw some light upon the bench, as the winter sun slips out of view.

The tree behind the bench provides cooling shade in the summer, but now stands ready to defend the bench with its’ mighty branches should some misguided youth have plans of carving their names upon the bench.

The two windows appear as friends once close, but grown apart. And, the speed limit sign reminds no one of the speed, but is ready should a vehicle come its’ way.

A group of useful things, idle and ignored, but not for long. Spring cometh.


Rings – Never ending pieces made of varied materials, always great to look at. The angle I chose, shows the rings apparently intertwined with one another.


That’s it, my friends. Be well, till we write again.

No Idea

I have no idea of what i’m about to write. Haven’t got a clue. Don’t even feel like writing. Maybe I shouldn’t write anymore today. What’s the point of writing if one has nothing to share?

I’m not looking at the computer screen. My eyes are fixed on the keyboard. All I see and hear are fingers moving and keys clacking. That’s it.

It’s a better than even bet that my fingers, or functionality there of, will not be a theme upon which to build a novel, short story, or a Facebook update. Indeed, the news of a dear friend having a muffin for breakfast (a trending topic on any given day), would be more interesting than my fingers doing anything.

The exception, however, would be if I were to write, “The fingers of my left and right hand came in contact with one another around Jonathan’s throat.” That would be worth writing about.

I’ve moved into a room that most do not disclose as they write, but we all multitask while in the room. I’m breaking no new ground, simply doing what’s been done for generations on one form or another.

How does one end an article about nothing? Is there an end to nothing? Or, is nothing nothing and requires no ending?


One More Slice

Fact: When I enter a room, my stomach proceeds me by a split second.

I’ve been thinking for a long time of how nice it would be if my stomach and I arrived at a place together. Sort of taking one car instead of two to a destination.

No one’s every complained about my stomach’s early arrival. They’re usually happy to see it’s presence. My suspicion for their glee is knowing I will enter shortly. Almost like two guests for the price of one.

My shoes are also unhappy. They haven’t seen my face in years. Oh yes, if I’m sitting down, we can see one another, and I suppose that counts for something. But, they’ve said they miss looking at me during our afternoon strolls.

And, forget about Mr. Jones. I haven’t seen him in years.

I’ve been trying to think of ways in which my stomach could be used recreationally. Of course, there’d have to be hours of operation, a concession stand, etc.

Or, I could open up the vast territory of my stomach to mountain climbing. Again, for the little creatures that don’t bite or

Then, I had the absurd idea of reducing the size of my stomach. I immediately discarded that idea into the corner where all bad and evil things live.

There is a singular word, which causes me  great pain, whenever I hear it. Diet. Oh, how I hate that word. But, alas and alack, I feel that is something I must do.

But, before I venture into the world of carrots and lettuce, both high on a dieter’s list of fine dining, there’s an entire pizza that needs my attention, lest I get tempted later on.


I’m in a very dark place. My soul is empty, my spirit is gone, and all I see around me is darkness, a bottom of the ocean kind of darkness. It isn’t so much the loss of light as it is the heaviness of black.

It feels like I’m in a mesh cage, five thousand feet below sea level. The mesh is of no use. It’s a covering that doesn’t work. A shelter which provides none. The darkness pours into the cage, and I can sense its’ eyes looking at me with curious amusement.

Darkness has been in our world for a very long time. He’s lost all memory of light. Darkness now believes this is the way it always was. Dark, heavy, empty.

I’ve meet darkness several times in my life, and each time, although I don’t remember how, I was able to fight his hold and rise to the light.

Tonight, that seems am impossible task.

It helps to write about my empty soul, perhaps I’m not the only one who feels this way.

I wasn’t going to write anything this evening. There is no humor, or fanciful twist to engage you, the reader. There is nothing but nothing.

Tomorrow is a new day, so the saying goes. I certainly hope so.


Well, this was going to be the day I continued my experiment of listening to Irish Traditional music, and recording images and emotions, in a Celtic stream of thought. But, the events of the day changed the experiment yet again.


This morning, I was standing on our deck, watching Kyle and Katie, our American Foxhound/Beagles playing in the backyard.

Then, I heard the wind, and thought of all the ways the sound of wind is described, freight train, jet plane, roaring, screamed, or, like a this, or a that, and so on.

I will not attempt to add  to the above examples. The best I can do is share with you what I hear.

To my ears the wind is choral, a combination of tones, layers of sound, mixing with one another, producing a complex cornucopia of sound. A wind song.

As I listened to the wind this morning, I sensed changes in the song.

Sometimes a minor key, mysterious with a slice of sinister, at other times a bright and bouncy spring day.

And then, a sudden change in tempo and urgency, then, changing to a lilting melody faster than the speed of light.

The song is never the same, always changing, improvising as it goes along, and when it ends, other sounds come to the forefront. Children, traffic, a distant radio playing a song that takes me on journey I had not packed for, but enjoyed nonetheless.

The wind song arrives without fanfare, departs without ado, preferring to keeps its’ rhymes and reasons a mystery.