where would i go

Once again beauty wins over tragedy. I suppose this is where my insensitivity comes into play. I see a picture, I sniff the air, and then my heart aches. I think to myself I would love to sit opposite this beast listening to its calls of love forlorn. I would do this. I would do that. But one thing I would not do is kill him. More than likely I will never take my children hunting to split this creature’s soul. Instead, I would take my offspring to the mountains that they, too, could bend their ears to hear his voice echo through the fog. This doesn’t mean that I don't eat meat. I do in fact love charring an animal’s flesh atop my grill. But that is only for the dumb animals. The chickens. The cows. The pigs.

i cried once. twice maybe

I love the sea. When it is cold and wet at my home my mind will often times drift aimlessly to the ocean blue. And yet I hate it when others speak of the coast, east or west I do not care. It is my sacred place. My soothing memory.  I especially loath it when others speak of the maritime ways: pirates, barnacles, sea breeze, whales. I guess one could call it jealousy. I do not care.

The sea is mine and mine alone. Call me Poseidon’s son. Call me the heir of Davey Jones. Yet it is in my sleep where I must inhale the scent of brine as I touch my tongue to the depths of the 7 seas. I ask myself why I persist to stay in my land locked cell. Why have I not broken free? Why must I insist of paddling along, treading water in the puddles and ponds of my home? Fear maybe. Reality more likely.

I once heard a story of a man asking birds in a tree why they should insist upon flapping their wings in the dying branches . He stated that they had the power to fly away free to any tree in the world. To the man the birds responded, “so do you?”

i weep for you

My premise here is to share with the world my glorious insight in relation to photographs from around the world. I have had it noted to me that up until my last post, it has been two years since writing. It was also mentioned that my last post seemed rather dark; and according to my mother, short on stimulating. I do apologize. But what am I to do? Journalism creativity is at a standstill. War is on the rise. Starving abounds. Inequality is the byword. 

To my readers I must sat, The bull is tame. The bloody hand touches his horns to the sound of laughter and glee. While inside my heart the stallion beats its hooves against the cage. Say good bye if I must. Seek the unadulterated if I can. But to reach my hand to touch the beast that should gore my brains from my skull? I think not. Run raging bovine. Lap free from the rivers. Snort the air unrestrained. Ravish the body, the soul, before the geldings come.