Category: Creativity

Phooey on yesterday

If I had a page and a third standing between me and the rest of this glorious day, what would I write? 

Would it be a poem about sunshine and bird song and the changing of seasons? Or a dark and desolate tale of monsters with two legs and weapons and oppression on their minds? 

Or would I sing a song of love and joy and patience and all those fruits? Or an essay about “how freedom means to sometimes follow higher laws” (quoting a song I wrote 40 years ago that still resonates despite the split infinitive)?

Or would I finally work up the nerve to tackle unfinished business? Or stop and take the dog for a walk; she is after all leaning in with puppy eyes and anxious sighs? No, the whole point was to finish my morning journal pages and then walk the dog.

Why do some days feel “together” and others, like this, feel discombobulated? I guess that’s just how humans are — we frustrate ourselves on a daily basis. “Oh, I missed my chance — I forgot what I meant to say or do — woe is me, well, maybe tomorrow.”

And then another day passes and we wake and say, “Well, phooey on yesterday, today is here and off we go.” 

Every day will fall short of what we wish it could have been, but every day is a new opportunity and another blank page, so if we shoot for the stars at least we will get a few inches or feet or miles off the ground, and pretty soon we’ll be flying, flying I tell you, and at the very least we’ll reach the bottom of the page and give that patient dog her wish.

Full

Throwback Thursday, March 13, 2021

— — — — — 

Writing can come in fits and starts, but I am full of words, every day, all day.

“My God, it’s full of stars.”

My God, I’m full of words.

It’s only that I don’t always write them down, but when I do … catharsis.

The dance of the pen across the page is a deer prancing in the snow, kids racing through the grass, a performance car zipping across the flats so fast the videographer struggles to keep the machine in the frame.

When it works, the words flow like water.

When it doesn’t, the words drip – drip – drip –

and then stop.

— — — — — 

This is the title entry from my book Full: Rockets, Bells & Poetry, available wherever fine books are sold — have your bookseller order ISBN 978-1-7373499-0-7

Binging the magic

Listen to this post:

The stream giveth, and the stream taketh away. I recently discovered the TV show Nashville, which had its first run from 2012 to 2018, just in time to also discover that it was leaving Netflix after Monday, Sept. 14.

I finished Season 4 on Sunday night, and I had run out of time to binge Seasons 5 and 6 in their entirety, so I looked at the IMDb ratings and found the top-rated episodes from the final two seasons. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that most of my Monday was devoted to catching eight or nine 42-minute stories including, of course, the series finale.

I am clearly a sucker for stories about writing songs and trying to make a life making music. They built a pile of endearing and not-so-endearing characters and tossed them in a room together. Even though I’ve now seen the best of those last two seasons, I expect I’ll revisit those seasons and all of Nashville when the stream decides to give it back, someday.

Watching all that songwriting magic gave me the itch to pick up my own guitars and see what comes out. But first I need to turn off the television and get some sleep.