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Time Off
~ I will be taking the rest of the year off. Thanks for spending time with me over this year. I will be back in early 2009 with a new Craig-Photography public website and will have new interviews, rants and random whatnots for you to enjoy. Be good to each other…
Peace ~ John
Peace ~ John
Time Off
~ I will be taking the rest of the year off. Thanks for spending time with me over this year. I will be back in early 2009 with a new Craig-Photography public website and will have new interviews, rants and random whatnots for you to enjoy. Be good to each other…
Peace ~ John
Peace ~ John
Year in Review: 2008 (Best of)
See all Moments of 2008 here
Current Reading: Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou
Current Music: In a Dream by Peter Kater & Dominic Miller
Mood: Existential Sounds: Random noise
Smells: Coffee & apples
Thoughts: There are 800 million solutions to the world’s problems, and you are one of them.
See all Photos 2008 here
Current Reading: Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou
Current Music: In a Dream by Peter Kater & Dominic Miller
Mood: Existential Sounds: Random noise
Smells: Coffee & apples
Thoughts: There are 800 million solutions to the world’s problems, and you are one of them.
See all Photos 2008 here
Exposure: 0.2 sec (1/5)
Aperture: f/29
Focal Length: 70 mm
ISO Speed: 200
Exposure Bias: 0 EV
Light Source: Cool white fluorescent (W 3900 - 4500K)
Year in Review: 2008 (Best of)
See all Moments of 2008 here
Current Reading: Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou
Current Music: In a Dream by Peter Kater & Dominic Miller
Mood: Existential Sounds: Random noise
Smells: Coffee & apples
Thoughts: There are 800 million solutions to the world’s problems, and you are one of them.
See all Photos 2008 here
Current Reading: Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou
Current Music: In a Dream by Peter Kater & Dominic Miller
Mood: Existential Sounds: Random noise
Smells: Coffee & apples
Thoughts: There are 800 million solutions to the world’s problems, and you are one of them.
See all Photos 2008 here
Exposure: 0.2 sec (1/5)
Aperture: f/29
Focal Length: 70 mm
ISO Speed: 200
Exposure Bias: 0 EV
Light Source: Cool white fluorescent (W 3900 - 4500K)
Moment
Current Reading: The Selected Letters of Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder, 1956-1991
Current Music: Rubber Soul by The Beatles
Mood: Headache, is that a mood?
Sounds: Telephone conversations
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 30 degrees with snow
Thoughts: I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness.
Current Music: Rubber Soul by The Beatles
Mood: Headache, is that a mood?
Sounds: Telephone conversations
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 30 degrees with snow
Thoughts: I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness.
Moment
Current Reading: The Selected Letters of Allen Ginsberg and Gary Snyder, 1956-1991
Current Music: Rubber Soul by The Beatles
Mood: Headache, is that a mood?
Sounds: Telephone conversations
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 30 degrees with snow
Thoughts: I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness.
Current Music: Rubber Soul by The Beatles
Mood: Headache, is that a mood?
Sounds: Telephone conversations
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 30 degrees with snow
Thoughts: I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness.
Photo of the Week
Camera: Nikon D200 Exposure: 30 sec (30)
Aperture: f/22
Focal Length: 28 mm
ISO Speed: 100
Exposure Bias: 0 EV
Photo of the Week
Camera: Nikon D200 Exposure: 30 sec (30)
Aperture: f/22
Focal Length: 28 mm
ISO Speed: 100
Exposure Bias: 0 EV
Rainbow in a Ghost Town - Short Story
Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? I hear this in my head. Again, “Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town?” Where is this audible thought coming from? It speaks from behind me keeping pace with me as I walk. I stroll into the coffee shop and order a medium holiday blend coffee with room for milk. The voice says, You’re stuck between creation and evolution, no longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re only a metaphor stuck inside a shell. Shell in which you’re preserved and housed and someday will have to return back to the soil. “That will be $1.87 sir. Would you like to donate a dollar to our children’s holiday fund.” The barista startles me back into consciousness. I smile at her and say yes.
I pick up a copy of yesterday’s New York Times that someone left on the table. It is opened to an article in the Health section about how Hong Kong finds more tainted eggs. I drink my coffee and watch people come and go and think about this strange narrative experience I am having. Eggs tainted with the chemical melamine that drops out of the butts of chickens and an audible thought standing behind me and within me.
I am not you. I am separate from you. I have my own thoughts, feelings and emotions. I am what I am becoming. I embrace loneliness. I am fluid motion and complete stillness. I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness. I am not human. I am your shadow.
Darting up from my table I go to the men’s room. Splashing water on my face I think about all the times I jokingly wrote about the onset of schizophrenia. I stare at myself in the mirror questioning the validity of this occurrence. I laugh out loud, my heart beats heavily. Splash more cold water on my face, wash my hands with that pink soap that never gets soapy and dry myself with brown rough paper that has no absorbent worth to it. I stand looking at my face. Same stubble on my chin, same haircut, these are my clothes. Never could recognize my own face, nevertheless this is me.
Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? “No”, I reply quietly in my head. “Why do you ask?” Not sure. It seems symbolic. A perfect image. “Image for what?” I ask. You; your existence. “How much do you weigh?” I ask. That is the dumbest question; I am the absence of light. I am neither matter nor anti-matter. I do not exist in time, only in flow of motion can I have presence in this world. Why would you ask suggest a question? “Because you have been feeling heavy to me and I can feel myself dragging you around. My own shadow aches.
Rub my hands over my face, straighten my jacket and adjust my scarf around my neck. Three deep breaths and I exit the men’s room. Walk back to my table, finished the article on tainted eggs. The article states: “Illegal levels of melamine, the industrial chemical blamed for sickening hundreds of thousands of young Chinese children, six fatalities.” Why?
Rainbow in a ghost town, that’s why. Perfecting that art of doing something so beautifully or something that is completely wicked. That’s what you humans do with your shells. But you, my master, you take things in. You are a rainbow in a ghost town.
This is eerie. I get up and leave the coffeehouse. Walking down the street I think this is a different reality from normal life and it is standing next to me. My new reality is inescapable; I wish I would have seen a UFO, a ghost meeting Jesus or Buddha or something like that. The street traffic is crowded, the sun is bright, the wind is cold and I just had a conversation with my shadow. The shadow calls me “my master”. Hair raises on the back of my neck as I repeat the phrase to myself, “my master.
I knock into a pizza deliveryman on the sidewalk, stumble off the curb into traffic. Car horn blows; blue Pontiac. The driver gives me the finger. I wave apoplectically, he doesn’t seem to care. Think I’ll take the subway. No tokens in my pocket, buy a seven day trip ticket. I sit across from a high school-aged couple on the train. She is polished; a mature look reminding me of Gwyneth Paltrow. Long blond hair, large black bag, turtleneck sweater, short, plaid skirt with a getting-back-at-daddy look on her face. The boy has that look of growing up in a cul-de-sac community but wishes he was raised in “the hood”. He is too clean looking to pull off the style but I am sure the girl’s father hates him. They look like they’re in love.
No voice in my head. I sit alone on the train unnoticeable to anyone else around me. I think that I could probably die in this seat and nobody would notice until the train stopped running for the day. My body would most likely be found by a cleaning crew. Train stops, the light flickers twice and I get off at Jameson St. and 9th.
Walk two blocks down the street to my apartment. Six flights of stairs to my front door. Every time I walk up the steps I tell myself this is the cheapest gym membership. It’s a small, clean apartment. I don’t have much stuff. Some books, CD’s, one small closet of clothes, toiletries, an exercise mat and a small collection of cooking utensils. You don’t need much in the kitchen to cook a good meal. One sharp knife for chopping vegetables, a large cutting board, a deep frying pan and a small arsenal of oils; with all of this you can pretty much cook anything.
Still no voice. Maybe it is the onset of schizophrenia. Go to the fridge and get a bottle of beer. Drink that down and get a second one. Realized that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Twelve hours without food is too long for a man to go without eating. Bag of carrots, red peppers some onions. Mix that up with rice and chicken and that’s dinner. Feeling odd and not knowing what to do next, I flip through my mail while eating dinner. Junk mail, bills and a single Christmas card. Who remembered me? It’s from the real estate agent that I leased this apartment from. This can make you feel alone in the world; a single Christmas card from a real estate agent that you only met once. I am a walking ghost.
That’s why you can hear me. You can feel me. You sense your own shadow. Shadows are given no thought from the human mind, no connection to the soul. This is essential for our survival. If you become me, I will no longer exist. That leaves me with no purpose. This is killing me; literally killing me and I want to live, my master.
“Sorry” I say out loud, definitely the onset of schizophrenia, I think to myself. “Shadow voice in my head or whatever crazy thing that you are!” I scream out loud. “Where have you been? Why do you come and go?” I’ve been out in the ether doing good deeds. “Really?” No. You are killing me and in doing so are slowly dieing yourself. I will not be able to speak to you many more times. A life of hopeful longing to be noticed is your hell, my master. No longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re a rainbow in a ghost town. The voice stops abruptly. Not getting the last sounds of the word “town” out. Am I alive? Did the voice die? My heart beats…
Next, I go into the bathroom. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I brush my teeth. I am alive, I am not schizophrenic. I repeat this to myself as I brush. Music. I need music. I need the music to fill my head, no longer do I want to think. Finishing up in the bathroom I enter the bed room. Clean, empty room, gray bedspread, two books, a bible and a travel log on Paris sits on the nightstand. One lamp and an Ipod connected to stereo speakers. Scroll through the Ipod and decide on Herbie Hancock; the Joni Letters. I lie in bed, listen and breathe. This music is an ideal blend of instrumentation and words, both equally strong, supporting each other. Piano mixes with vocals with horns laced through them. It is a poetic landscape of sounds, perfection, and neither one a shadow to the other.
Shadow…shadow…sha…my heart stops…
I pick up a copy of yesterday’s New York Times that someone left on the table. It is opened to an article in the Health section about how Hong Kong finds more tainted eggs. I drink my coffee and watch people come and go and think about this strange narrative experience I am having. Eggs tainted with the chemical melamine that drops out of the butts of chickens and an audible thought standing behind me and within me.
I am not you. I am separate from you. I have my own thoughts, feelings and emotions. I am what I am becoming. I embrace loneliness. I am fluid motion and complete stillness. I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness. I am not human. I am your shadow.
Darting up from my table I go to the men’s room. Splashing water on my face I think about all the times I jokingly wrote about the onset of schizophrenia. I stare at myself in the mirror questioning the validity of this occurrence. I laugh out loud, my heart beats heavily. Splash more cold water on my face, wash my hands with that pink soap that never gets soapy and dry myself with brown rough paper that has no absorbent worth to it. I stand looking at my face. Same stubble on my chin, same haircut, these are my clothes. Never could recognize my own face, nevertheless this is me.
Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? “No”, I reply quietly in my head. “Why do you ask?” Not sure. It seems symbolic. A perfect image. “Image for what?” I ask. You; your existence. “How much do you weigh?” I ask. That is the dumbest question; I am the absence of light. I am neither matter nor anti-matter. I do not exist in time, only in flow of motion can I have presence in this world. Why would you ask suggest a question? “Because you have been feeling heavy to me and I can feel myself dragging you around. My own shadow aches.
Rub my hands over my face, straighten my jacket and adjust my scarf around my neck. Three deep breaths and I exit the men’s room. Walk back to my table, finished the article on tainted eggs. The article states: “Illegal levels of melamine, the industrial chemical blamed for sickening hundreds of thousands of young Chinese children, six fatalities.” Why?
Rainbow in a ghost town, that’s why. Perfecting that art of doing something so beautifully or something that is completely wicked. That’s what you humans do with your shells. But you, my master, you take things in. You are a rainbow in a ghost town.
This is eerie. I get up and leave the coffeehouse. Walking down the street I think this is a different reality from normal life and it is standing next to me. My new reality is inescapable; I wish I would have seen a UFO, a ghost meeting Jesus or Buddha or something like that. The street traffic is crowded, the sun is bright, the wind is cold and I just had a conversation with my shadow. The shadow calls me “my master”. Hair raises on the back of my neck as I repeat the phrase to myself, “my master.
I knock into a pizza deliveryman on the sidewalk, stumble off the curb into traffic. Car horn blows; blue Pontiac. The driver gives me the finger. I wave apoplectically, he doesn’t seem to care. Think I’ll take the subway. No tokens in my pocket, buy a seven day trip ticket. I sit across from a high school-aged couple on the train. She is polished; a mature look reminding me of Gwyneth Paltrow. Long blond hair, large black bag, turtleneck sweater, short, plaid skirt with a getting-back-at-daddy look on her face. The boy has that look of growing up in a cul-de-sac community but wishes he was raised in “the hood”. He is too clean looking to pull off the style but I am sure the girl’s father hates him. They look like they’re in love.
No voice in my head. I sit alone on the train unnoticeable to anyone else around me. I think that I could probably die in this seat and nobody would notice until the train stopped running for the day. My body would most likely be found by a cleaning crew. Train stops, the light flickers twice and I get off at Jameson St. and 9th.
Walk two blocks down the street to my apartment. Six flights of stairs to my front door. Every time I walk up the steps I tell myself this is the cheapest gym membership. It’s a small, clean apartment. I don’t have much stuff. Some books, CD’s, one small closet of clothes, toiletries, an exercise mat and a small collection of cooking utensils. You don’t need much in the kitchen to cook a good meal. One sharp knife for chopping vegetables, a large cutting board, a deep frying pan and a small arsenal of oils; with all of this you can pretty much cook anything.
Still no voice. Maybe it is the onset of schizophrenia. Go to the fridge and get a bottle of beer. Drink that down and get a second one. Realized that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Twelve hours without food is too long for a man to go without eating. Bag of carrots, red peppers some onions. Mix that up with rice and chicken and that’s dinner. Feeling odd and not knowing what to do next, I flip through my mail while eating dinner. Junk mail, bills and a single Christmas card. Who remembered me? It’s from the real estate agent that I leased this apartment from. This can make you feel alone in the world; a single Christmas card from a real estate agent that you only met once. I am a walking ghost.
That’s why you can hear me. You can feel me. You sense your own shadow. Shadows are given no thought from the human mind, no connection to the soul. This is essential for our survival. If you become me, I will no longer exist. That leaves me with no purpose. This is killing me; literally killing me and I want to live, my master.
“Sorry” I say out loud, definitely the onset of schizophrenia, I think to myself. “Shadow voice in my head or whatever crazy thing that you are!” I scream out loud. “Where have you been? Why do you come and go?” I’ve been out in the ether doing good deeds. “Really?” No. You are killing me and in doing so are slowly dieing yourself. I will not be able to speak to you many more times. A life of hopeful longing to be noticed is your hell, my master. No longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re a rainbow in a ghost town. The voice stops abruptly. Not getting the last sounds of the word “town” out. Am I alive? Did the voice die? My heart beats…
Next, I go into the bathroom. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I brush my teeth. I am alive, I am not schizophrenic. I repeat this to myself as I brush. Music. I need music. I need the music to fill my head, no longer do I want to think. Finishing up in the bathroom I enter the bed room. Clean, empty room, gray bedspread, two books, a bible and a travel log on Paris sits on the nightstand. One lamp and an Ipod connected to stereo speakers. Scroll through the Ipod and decide on Herbie Hancock; the Joni Letters. I lie in bed, listen and breathe. This music is an ideal blend of instrumentation and words, both equally strong, supporting each other. Piano mixes with vocals with horns laced through them. It is a poetic landscape of sounds, perfection, and neither one a shadow to the other.
Shadow…shadow…sha…my heart stops…
Rainbow in a Ghost Town - Short Story
Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? I hear this in my head. Again, “Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town?” Where is this audible thought coming from? It speaks from behind me keeping pace with me as I walk. I stroll into the coffee shop and order a medium holiday blend coffee with room for milk. The voice says, You’re stuck between creation and evolution, no longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re only a metaphor stuck inside a shell. Shell in which you’re preserved and housed and someday will have to return back to the soil. “That will be $1.87 sir. Would you like to donate a dollar to our children’s holiday fund.” The barista startles me back into consciousness. I smile at her and say yes.
I pick up a copy of yesterday’s New York Times that someone left on the table. It is opened to an article in the Health section about how Hong Kong finds more tainted eggs. I drink my coffee and watch people come and go and think about this strange narrative experience I am having. Eggs tainted with the chemical melamine that drops out of the butts of chickens and an audible thought standing behind me and within me.
I am not you. I am separate from you. I have my own thoughts, feelings and emotions. I am what I am becoming. I embrace loneliness. I am fluid motion and complete stillness. I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness. I am not human. I am your shadow.
Darting up from my table I go to the men’s room. Splashing water on my face I think about all the times I jokingly wrote about the onset of schizophrenia. I stare at myself in the mirror questioning the validity of this occurrence. I laugh out loud, my heart beats heavily. Splash more cold water on my face, wash my hands with that pink soap that never gets soapy and dry myself with brown rough paper that has no absorbent worth to it. I stand looking at my face. Same stubble on my chin, same haircut, these are my clothes. Never could recognize my own face, nevertheless this is me.
Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? “No”, I reply quietly in my head. “Why do you ask?” Not sure. It seems symbolic. A perfect image. “Image for what?” I ask. You; your existence. “How much do you weigh?” I ask. That is the dumbest question; I am the absence of light. I am neither matter nor anti-matter. I do not exist in time, only in flow of motion can I have presence in this world. Why would you ask suggest a question? “Because you have been feeling heavy to me and I can feel myself dragging you around. My own shadow aches.
Rub my hands over my face, straighten my jacket and adjust my scarf around my neck. Three deep breaths and I exit the men’s room. Walk back to my table, finished the article on tainted eggs. The article states: “Illegal levels of melamine, the industrial chemical blamed for sickening hundreds of thousands of young Chinese children, six fatalities.” Why?
Rainbow in a ghost town, that’s why. Perfecting that art of doing something so beautifully or something that is completely wicked. That’s what you humans do with your shells. But you, my master, you take things in. You are a rainbow in a ghost town.
This is eerie. I get up and leave the coffeehouse. Walking down the street I think this is a different reality from normal life and it is standing next to me. My new reality is inescapable; I wish I would have seen a UFO, a ghost meeting Jesus or Buddha or something like that. The street traffic is crowded, the sun is bright, the wind is cold and I just had a conversation with my shadow. The shadow calls me “my master”. Hair raises on the back of my neck as I repeat the phrase to myself, “my master.
I knock into a pizza deliveryman on the sidewalk, stumble off the curb into traffic. Car horn blows; blue Pontiac. The driver gives me the finger. I wave apoplectically, he doesn’t seem to care. Think I’ll take the subway. No tokens in my pocket, buy a seven day trip ticket. I sit across from a high school-aged couple on the train. She is polished; a mature look reminding me of Gwyneth Paltrow. Long blond hair, large black bag, turtleneck sweater, short, plaid skirt with a getting-back-at-daddy look on her face. The boy has that look of growing up in a cul-de-sac community but wishes he was raised in “the hood”. He is too clean looking to pull off the style but I am sure the girl’s father hates him. They look like they’re in love.
No voice in my head. I sit alone on the train unnoticeable to anyone else around me. I think that I could probably die in this seat and nobody would notice until the train stopped running for the day. My body would most likely be found by a cleaning crew. Train stops, the light flickers twice and I get off at Jameson St. and 9th.
Walk two blocks down the street to my apartment. Six flights of stairs to my front door. Every time I walk up the steps I tell myself this is the cheapest gym membership. It’s a small, clean apartment. I don’t have much stuff. Some books, CD’s, one small closet of clothes, toiletries, an exercise mat and a small collection of cooking utensils. You don’t need much in the kitchen to cook a good meal. One sharp knife for chopping vegetables, a large cutting board, a deep frying pan and a small arsenal of oils; with all of this you can pretty much cook anything.
Still no voice. Maybe it is the onset of schizophrenia. Go to the fridge and get a bottle of beer. Drink that down and get a second one. Realized that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Twelve hours without food is too long for a man to go without eating. Bag of carrots, red peppers some onions. Mix that up with rice and chicken and that’s dinner. Feeling odd and not knowing what to do next, I flip through my mail while eating dinner. Junk mail, bills and a single Christmas card. Who remembered me? It’s from the real estate agent that I leased this apartment from. This can make you feel alone in the world; a single Christmas card from a real estate agent that you only met once. I am a walking ghost.
That’s why you can hear me. You can feel me. You sense your own shadow. Shadows are given no thought from the human mind, no connection to the soul. This is essential for our survival. If you become me, I will no longer exist. That leaves me with no purpose. This is killing me; literally killing me and I want to live, my master.
“Sorry” I say out loud, definitely the onset of schizophrenia, I think to myself. “Shadow voice in my head or whatever crazy thing that you are!” I scream out loud. “Where have you been? Why do you come and go?” I’ve been out in the ether doing good deeds. “Really?” No. You are killing me and in doing so are slowly dieing yourself. I will not be able to speak to you many more times. A life of hopeful longing to be noticed is your hell, my master. No longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re a rainbow in a ghost town. The voice stops abruptly. Not getting the last sounds of the word “town” out. Am I alive? Did the voice die? My heart beats…
Next, I go into the bathroom. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I brush my teeth. I am alive, I am not schizophrenic. I repeat this to myself as I brush. Music. I need music. I need the music to fill my head, no longer do I want to think. Finishing up in the bathroom I enter the bed room. Clean, empty room, gray bedspread, two books, a bible and a travel log on Paris sits on the nightstand. One lamp and an Ipod connected to stereo speakers. Scroll through the Ipod and decide on Herbie Hancock; the Joni Letters. I lie in bed, listen and breathe. This music is an ideal blend of instrumentation and words, both equally strong, supporting each other. Piano mixes with vocals with horns laced through them. It is a poetic landscape of sounds, perfection, and neither one a shadow to the other.
Shadow…shadow…sha…my heart stops…
I pick up a copy of yesterday’s New York Times that someone left on the table. It is opened to an article in the Health section about how Hong Kong finds more tainted eggs. I drink my coffee and watch people come and go and think about this strange narrative experience I am having. Eggs tainted with the chemical melamine that drops out of the butts of chickens and an audible thought standing behind me and within me.
I am not you. I am separate from you. I have my own thoughts, feelings and emotions. I am what I am becoming. I embrace loneliness. I am fluid motion and complete stillness. I need the light to live yet I am in utter darkness. I am not human. I am your shadow.
Darting up from my table I go to the men’s room. Splashing water on my face I think about all the times I jokingly wrote about the onset of schizophrenia. I stare at myself in the mirror questioning the validity of this occurrence. I laugh out loud, my heart beats heavily. Splash more cold water on my face, wash my hands with that pink soap that never gets soapy and dry myself with brown rough paper that has no absorbent worth to it. I stand looking at my face. Same stubble on my chin, same haircut, these are my clothes. Never could recognize my own face, nevertheless this is me.
Do you know what it feels like to be a rainbow in a ghost town? “No”, I reply quietly in my head. “Why do you ask?” Not sure. It seems symbolic. A perfect image. “Image for what?” I ask. You; your existence. “How much do you weigh?” I ask. That is the dumbest question; I am the absence of light. I am neither matter nor anti-matter. I do not exist in time, only in flow of motion can I have presence in this world. Why would you ask suggest a question? “Because you have been feeling heavy to me and I can feel myself dragging you around. My own shadow aches.
Rub my hands over my face, straighten my jacket and adjust my scarf around my neck. Three deep breaths and I exit the men’s room. Walk back to my table, finished the article on tainted eggs. The article states: “Illegal levels of melamine, the industrial chemical blamed for sickening hundreds of thousands of young Chinese children, six fatalities.” Why?
Rainbow in a ghost town, that’s why. Perfecting that art of doing something so beautifully or something that is completely wicked. That’s what you humans do with your shells. But you, my master, you take things in. You are a rainbow in a ghost town.
This is eerie. I get up and leave the coffeehouse. Walking down the street I think this is a different reality from normal life and it is standing next to me. My new reality is inescapable; I wish I would have seen a UFO, a ghost meeting Jesus or Buddha or something like that. The street traffic is crowded, the sun is bright, the wind is cold and I just had a conversation with my shadow. The shadow calls me “my master”. Hair raises on the back of my neck as I repeat the phrase to myself, “my master.
I knock into a pizza deliveryman on the sidewalk, stumble off the curb into traffic. Car horn blows; blue Pontiac. The driver gives me the finger. I wave apoplectically, he doesn’t seem to care. Think I’ll take the subway. No tokens in my pocket, buy a seven day trip ticket. I sit across from a high school-aged couple on the train. She is polished; a mature look reminding me of Gwyneth Paltrow. Long blond hair, large black bag, turtleneck sweater, short, plaid skirt with a getting-back-at-daddy look on her face. The boy has that look of growing up in a cul-de-sac community but wishes he was raised in “the hood”. He is too clean looking to pull off the style but I am sure the girl’s father hates him. They look like they’re in love.
No voice in my head. I sit alone on the train unnoticeable to anyone else around me. I think that I could probably die in this seat and nobody would notice until the train stopped running for the day. My body would most likely be found by a cleaning crew. Train stops, the light flickers twice and I get off at Jameson St. and 9th.
Walk two blocks down the street to my apartment. Six flights of stairs to my front door. Every time I walk up the steps I tell myself this is the cheapest gym membership. It’s a small, clean apartment. I don’t have much stuff. Some books, CD’s, one small closet of clothes, toiletries, an exercise mat and a small collection of cooking utensils. You don’t need much in the kitchen to cook a good meal. One sharp knife for chopping vegetables, a large cutting board, a deep frying pan and a small arsenal of oils; with all of this you can pretty much cook anything.
Still no voice. Maybe it is the onset of schizophrenia. Go to the fridge and get a bottle of beer. Drink that down and get a second one. Realized that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Twelve hours without food is too long for a man to go without eating. Bag of carrots, red peppers some onions. Mix that up with rice and chicken and that’s dinner. Feeling odd and not knowing what to do next, I flip through my mail while eating dinner. Junk mail, bills and a single Christmas card. Who remembered me? It’s from the real estate agent that I leased this apartment from. This can make you feel alone in the world; a single Christmas card from a real estate agent that you only met once. I am a walking ghost.
That’s why you can hear me. You can feel me. You sense your own shadow. Shadows are given no thought from the human mind, no connection to the soul. This is essential for our survival. If you become me, I will no longer exist. That leaves me with no purpose. This is killing me; literally killing me and I want to live, my master.
“Sorry” I say out loud, definitely the onset of schizophrenia, I think to myself. “Shadow voice in my head or whatever crazy thing that you are!” I scream out loud. “Where have you been? Why do you come and go?” I’ve been out in the ether doing good deeds. “Really?” No. You are killing me and in doing so are slowly dieing yourself. I will not be able to speak to you many more times. A life of hopeful longing to be noticed is your hell, my master. No longer a monkey nor yet to become an angel. You’re a rainbow in a ghost town. The voice stops abruptly. Not getting the last sounds of the word “town” out. Am I alive? Did the voice die? My heart beats…
Next, I go into the bathroom. The lights are too bright. Squinting, I brush my teeth. I am alive, I am not schizophrenic. I repeat this to myself as I brush. Music. I need music. I need the music to fill my head, no longer do I want to think. Finishing up in the bathroom I enter the bed room. Clean, empty room, gray bedspread, two books, a bible and a travel log on Paris sits on the nightstand. One lamp and an Ipod connected to stereo speakers. Scroll through the Ipod and decide on Herbie Hancock; the Joni Letters. I lie in bed, listen and breathe. This music is an ideal blend of instrumentation and words, both equally strong, supporting each other. Piano mixes with vocals with horns laced through them. It is a poetic landscape of sounds, perfection, and neither one a shadow to the other.
Shadow…shadow…sha…my heart stops…
Recommended Reading & Viewing
Writing a short story today. No time to blog so here are some blog post for you to enjoy.
We have met the enemy – Friedman & Liebert
Donna & James by Elizabeth Craig
Apocalypse Not by Stuart Davis
Yellow is crazy hot by Matthew Dallman
We have met the enemy – Friedman & Liebert
Donna & James by Elizabeth Craig
Apocalypse Not by Stuart Davis
Yellow is crazy hot by Matthew Dallman
Recommended Reading & Viewing
Writing a short story today. No time to blog so here are some blog post for you to enjoy.
We have met the enemy – Friedman & Liebert
Donna & James by Elizabeth Craig
Apocalypse Not by Stuart Davis
Yellow is crazy hot by Matthew Dallman
We have met the enemy – Friedman & Liebert
Donna & James by Elizabeth Craig
Apocalypse Not by Stuart Davis
Yellow is crazy hot by Matthew Dallman
Moment
Current Reading: Never Cry Jack by Kit Anderson
Current Music: Red Letter Year by Ani Difranco
Mood: Sleepy, yes it a mood
Sounds: Rain
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 43 degrees with rain
Thoughts: Stuck between creation and evolution, no longer am I a monkey nor I have yet to become an angle.
Current Music: Red Letter Year by Ani Difranco
Mood: Sleepy, yes it a mood
Sounds: Rain
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 43 degrees with rain
Thoughts: Stuck between creation and evolution, no longer am I a monkey nor I have yet to become an angle.
Moment
Current Reading: Never Cry Jack by Kit Anderson
Current Music: Red Letter Year by Ani Difranco
Mood: Sleepy, yes it a mood
Sounds: Rain
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 43 degrees with rain
Thoughts: Stuck between creation and evolution, no longer am I a monkey nor I have yet to become an angle.
Current Music: Red Letter Year by Ani Difranco
Mood: Sleepy, yes it a mood
Sounds: Rain
Smells: Coffee
Temperature: 43 degrees with rain
Thoughts: Stuck between creation and evolution, no longer am I a monkey nor I have yet to become an angle.
Photo of the Week
Camera: Nikon D200
Exposure: 28 sec (28)
Aperture: f/29
Focal Length: 46 mm
ISO Speed: 100
Photo of the Week
Camera: Nikon D200
Exposure: 28 sec (28)
Aperture: f/29
Focal Length: 46 mm
ISO Speed: 100
God Damn It, You've Got To Be Kind.
I have been sitting with these thoughts for a week. Here goes.
A Senator is seated to my left, a legislator is sitting to my right and a novelist sits across the table from me. I am drinking bottled beer, the Senator is drinking black coffee and the legislator is having a gin and tonic, the novelist does not have a drink although he is jotting something down in his moleskin journal. We share a dinner of salmon, chicken and green beans. The conversation covers “where are you from”, “how did you get here”, “what camera should I buy?” and “how do you know when you have a balanced and educated understanding of the what-nots of this world?”
Earlier in the day my wife and I had the opportunity to spend time with the girls of San Mar Children’s home. “I don’t know what each of their stories are, but I can tell you that the resilience I saw in each of their eyes was a profound lesson in love and forgiveness.” You can read the rest of my wife’s thoughts on our day here; she was the one that gave us the opportunity.
When leaving the home and saying our goodbyes, one girl stopped us and said, “thank you for really showing up.” The word “really” broke my heart and, at the same time, made me a better person. Kurt Vonnegut said, “There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind.” As I write this there is a crowd in California that is picketing and protesting the legalization of gay marriage. One thousand pages in the bible on serving the poor and less fortunate and they pick the 4 vague sentences to stage a protest. Wonder how many homeless people they passed on their way to the protest.
Sitting at dinner I was able to ask the Senator all my questions about the political state of affairs. He was kind, politically correct and respectful with his responses. He answered, “No, I do not know Obama or McCain”, “Yes, I feel the same about Palin”, “Things are bad but the financial environment of 1991 was worse”, “People are good on both sides of the aisle, most of them”, “That’s never been asked of me.” At this point I am screaming quietly in my head.
The legislator makes remarks on the 1960’s, peace core and why she became an activist for the disabled. They serve us pie. I have pumpkin, it was good. The legislator looks like an earthy Meryl Streep to me. She tells me, “the Senator and I don’t share the same views but I like him.” I lean over to her and say, “I also chose hope.” We giggled. Then she proceeds to tell me about the best grass fed steak she ever had. “The beef was grown in Kansas, flat land not many trees, but they can place a tasty steak on your dinner plate. Plus no vegetable; just steak and a large potato.” I’m stuck on the word “grown”. At least it was grass fed. She was kind to me. Her husband leans over to me and tells me that he loves the bridges of Pittsburgh. “I have a print in my kitchen.” The legislator said, “that’s Pittsburgh? I thought it was somewhere in England or France.” I hope she still enjoys the print. I talk about my previous evening trying to photograph the not-so-light-up-night in Pittsburgh.
The Senator chimes in, “John, on your last question, I was giving it some thought. It works the same way for us in the Senate as it does for you. We try our best with the information we have.”
That’s it… that is how our Government works. I look up at the novelist, he seems uninterested in the conversation. He likes pie – he is on his third slice of apple.
This is the thought that has been ringing in my head for a week:
We try our best with the information we have - God damn it, you've got to be kind. Really.
A Senator is seated to my left, a legislator is sitting to my right and a novelist sits across the table from me. I am drinking bottled beer, the Senator is drinking black coffee and the legislator is having a gin and tonic, the novelist does not have a drink although he is jotting something down in his moleskin journal. We share a dinner of salmon, chicken and green beans. The conversation covers “where are you from”, “how did you get here”, “what camera should I buy?” and “how do you know when you have a balanced and educated understanding of the what-nots of this world?”
Earlier in the day my wife and I had the opportunity to spend time with the girls of San Mar Children’s home. “I don’t know what each of their stories are, but I can tell you that the resilience I saw in each of their eyes was a profound lesson in love and forgiveness.” You can read the rest of my wife’s thoughts on our day here; she was the one that gave us the opportunity.
When leaving the home and saying our goodbyes, one girl stopped us and said, “thank you for really showing up.” The word “really” broke my heart and, at the same time, made me a better person. Kurt Vonnegut said, “There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind.” As I write this there is a crowd in California that is picketing and protesting the legalization of gay marriage. One thousand pages in the bible on serving the poor and less fortunate and they pick the 4 vague sentences to stage a protest. Wonder how many homeless people they passed on their way to the protest.
Sitting at dinner I was able to ask the Senator all my questions about the political state of affairs. He was kind, politically correct and respectful with his responses. He answered, “No, I do not know Obama or McCain”, “Yes, I feel the same about Palin”, “Things are bad but the financial environment of 1991 was worse”, “People are good on both sides of the aisle, most of them”, “That’s never been asked of me.” At this point I am screaming quietly in my head.
The legislator makes remarks on the 1960’s, peace core and why she became an activist for the disabled. They serve us pie. I have pumpkin, it was good. The legislator looks like an earthy Meryl Streep to me. She tells me, “the Senator and I don’t share the same views but I like him.” I lean over to her and say, “I also chose hope.” We giggled. Then she proceeds to tell me about the best grass fed steak she ever had. “The beef was grown in Kansas, flat land not many trees, but they can place a tasty steak on your dinner plate. Plus no vegetable; just steak and a large potato.” I’m stuck on the word “grown”. At least it was grass fed. She was kind to me. Her husband leans over to me and tells me that he loves the bridges of Pittsburgh. “I have a print in my kitchen.” The legislator said, “that’s Pittsburgh? I thought it was somewhere in England or France.” I hope she still enjoys the print. I talk about my previous evening trying to photograph the not-so-light-up-night in Pittsburgh.
The Senator chimes in, “John, on your last question, I was giving it some thought. It works the same way for us in the Senate as it does for you. We try our best with the information we have.”
That’s it… that is how our Government works. I look up at the novelist, he seems uninterested in the conversation. He likes pie – he is on his third slice of apple.
This is the thought that has been ringing in my head for a week:
We try our best with the information we have - God damn it, you've got to be kind. Really.
God Damn It, You've Got To Be Kind.
I have been sitting with these thoughts for a week. Here goes.
A Senator is seated to my left, a legislator is sitting to my right and a novelist sits across the table from me. I am drinking bottled beer, the Senator is drinking black coffee and the legislator is having a gin and tonic, the novelist does not have a drink although he is jotting something down in his moleskin journal. We share a dinner of salmon, chicken and green beans. The conversation covers “where are you from”, “how did you get here”, “what camera should I buy?” and “how do you know when you have a balanced and educated understanding of the what-nots of this world?”
Earlier in the day my wife and I had the opportunity to spend time with the girls of San Mar Children’s home. “I don’t know what each of their stories are, but I can tell you that the resilience I saw in each of their eyes was a profound lesson in love and forgiveness.” You can read the rest of my wife’s thoughts on our day here; she was the one that gave us the opportunity.
When leaving the home and saying our goodbyes, one girl stopped us and said, “thank you for really showing up.” The word “really” broke my heart and, at the same time, made me a better person. Kurt Vonnegut said, “There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind.” As I write this there is a crowd in California that is picketing and protesting the legalization of gay marriage. One thousand pages in the bible on serving the poor and less fortunate and they pick the 4 vague sentences to stage a protest. Wonder how many homeless people they passed on their way to the protest.
Sitting at dinner I was able to ask the Senator all my questions about the political state of affairs. He was kind, politically correct and respectful with his responses. He answered, “No, I do not know Obama or McCain”, “Yes, I feel the same about Palin”, “Things are bad but the financial environment of 1991 was worse”, “People are good on both sides of the aisle, most of them”, “That’s never been asked of me.” At this point I am screaming quietly in my head.
The legislator makes remarks on the 1960’s, peace core and why she became an activist for the disabled. They serve us pie. I have pumpkin, it was good. The legislator looks like an earthy Meryl Streep to me. She tells me, “the Senator and I don’t share the same views but I like him.” I lean over to her and say, “I also chose hope.” We giggled. Then she proceeds to tell me about the best grass fed steak she ever had. “The beef was grown in Kansas, flat land not many trees, but they can place a tasty steak on your dinner plate. Plus no vegetable; just steak and a large potato.” I’m stuck on the word “grown”. At least it was grass fed. She was kind to me. Her husband leans over to me and tells me that he loves the bridges of Pittsburgh. “I have a print in my kitchen.” The legislator said, “that’s Pittsburgh? I thought it was somewhere in England or France.” I hope she still enjoys the print. I talk about my previous evening trying to photograph the not-so-light-up-night in Pittsburgh.
The Senator chimes in, “John, on your last question, I was giving it some thought. It works the same way for us in the Senate as it does for you. We try our best with the information we have.”
That’s it… that is how our Government works. I look up at the novelist, he seems uninterested in the conversation. He likes pie – he is on his third slice of apple.
This is the thought that has been ringing in my head for a week:
We try our best with the information we have - God damn it, you've got to be kind. Really.
A Senator is seated to my left, a legislator is sitting to my right and a novelist sits across the table from me. I am drinking bottled beer, the Senator is drinking black coffee and the legislator is having a gin and tonic, the novelist does not have a drink although he is jotting something down in his moleskin journal. We share a dinner of salmon, chicken and green beans. The conversation covers “where are you from”, “how did you get here”, “what camera should I buy?” and “how do you know when you have a balanced and educated understanding of the what-nots of this world?”
Earlier in the day my wife and I had the opportunity to spend time with the girls of San Mar Children’s home. “I don’t know what each of their stories are, but I can tell you that the resilience I saw in each of their eyes was a profound lesson in love and forgiveness.” You can read the rest of my wife’s thoughts on our day here; she was the one that gave us the opportunity.
When leaving the home and saying our goodbyes, one girl stopped us and said, “thank you for really showing up.” The word “really” broke my heart and, at the same time, made me a better person. Kurt Vonnegut said, “There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind.” As I write this there is a crowd in California that is picketing and protesting the legalization of gay marriage. One thousand pages in the bible on serving the poor and less fortunate and they pick the 4 vague sentences to stage a protest. Wonder how many homeless people they passed on their way to the protest.
Sitting at dinner I was able to ask the Senator all my questions about the political state of affairs. He was kind, politically correct and respectful with his responses. He answered, “No, I do not know Obama or McCain”, “Yes, I feel the same about Palin”, “Things are bad but the financial environment of 1991 was worse”, “People are good on both sides of the aisle, most of them”, “That’s never been asked of me.” At this point I am screaming quietly in my head.
The legislator makes remarks on the 1960’s, peace core and why she became an activist for the disabled. They serve us pie. I have pumpkin, it was good. The legislator looks like an earthy Meryl Streep to me. She tells me, “the Senator and I don’t share the same views but I like him.” I lean over to her and say, “I also chose hope.” We giggled. Then she proceeds to tell me about the best grass fed steak she ever had. “The beef was grown in Kansas, flat land not many trees, but they can place a tasty steak on your dinner plate. Plus no vegetable; just steak and a large potato.” I’m stuck on the word “grown”. At least it was grass fed. She was kind to me. Her husband leans over to me and tells me that he loves the bridges of Pittsburgh. “I have a print in my kitchen.” The legislator said, “that’s Pittsburgh? I thought it was somewhere in England or France.” I hope she still enjoys the print. I talk about my previous evening trying to photograph the not-so-light-up-night in Pittsburgh.
The Senator chimes in, “John, on your last question, I was giving it some thought. It works the same way for us in the Senate as it does for you. We try our best with the information we have.”
That’s it… that is how our Government works. I look up at the novelist, he seems uninterested in the conversation. He likes pie – he is on his third slice of apple.
This is the thought that has been ringing in my head for a week:
We try our best with the information we have - God damn it, you've got to be kind. Really.
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