David

Tonight I am starting a little piece entitled "From the Mind of David." David is, among many other things, full of little tidbits of wisdom and hilarity. I'd like to share some of his unique observations which will sometimes make you think and other times make you laugh. Enjoy.

From The Mind of David #1

"It's life Jim......just not as we know it."

Stay tuned....

A Quickie

Purpose

Another day passes
Laugh, cry, sleep.

Tomorrow starts fresh
Wake, laugh, weep.

Episodic life
Cumulative plot
Gelatin flesh
Eventual rot.

Cliffhanger conclusion
Spirit set free.

Discover joy
And the purpose of me.

Another from NON-Sense

NONSense #3

Precradle the family of richonington heights
so blinded by fubonious rhythms.
Choose to ignore and jugilitae fear.
Erase the obvious and insert yilliot grack.
Waste another vratoli on superficial prios
chase the horizon and land with rimolant friends
who never show honicle in front of nanolites.

A Small One

No Sense

The light of the moon, and the darkness.
The heat from the sun, and the lack of it.
The sound of the rain, and the quiet it creates.
The taste of cool water, and the blandness.
The scent of lonliness, and the pungency.
The touch from those hands, and the obsession.

Silence and Sanctuary

The big ole’ farmhouse is empty, devoid of intruders. Absent are the giggling children, the whining children, the rambunctious sounds of play. It’s almost completely silent, truly a rare, blissful moment that must be recorded. The television in the nearby room sits blankly, its screen reflecting only the windows across the way. The invasion of stimuli quelled with the push of a button. There is no radio, or radio announcers, and no music, just undisrupted repose, the exquisite rarity of the moment, memorably extraordinary.
In the adjoining room, wide wooden planks of a seemingly ancient ceiling fan spin slowly above a large oval oak dining room table. The cool, hard surface of the table contains scratches and even a few gouges from Thanksgivings and birthdays, quiet memories of other blissful times. A circular chrome tray sits at its center reflecting the turn of the fan above, which provides a cool and relaxing gentle breeze.
The serene air being pushed by the fan blades wafts across the room, delicately nudging the ivory colored sheer panels that cover the tall painted windows, so peaceful and quiet a motion. At the center of this room, at the center of this house, sits a woman who is the center of it all. Abstract oil paintings hang upon the surrounding walls waiting to be understood, to be noticed, not unlike the woman herself. One painted with rich colors of orange, yellow and white mixed together like a melting dreamsicle. Another with vibrant greens and splashed on cherry reds looks nothing like the holiday they represent. She sits, with her pen in hand, in a wobbly oak chair that has sat dozens before her. The undulating air causes the leaf of notebook paper she scribbles across to slightly lift at its corner in a waving motion with each rotation of the fan.
“Hello” it seems to say to the verdi-green metal floor lamp across the way, “We don’t need you yet.”
Light still filters its way between the metal slats of the white mini-blinds. A rhythmic, but barely audible sound comes from the pen as she pushes it along the page. This amicable loneliness is quite unlike the hectic, scheduled, and infinitely busy loneliness she is accustomed too.
Turning her head towards the wide, but short mahogany bookshelf, she considers the books that wait to be read. Resting undisturbed, the dust gathers along the edges and across the tips of the spines. Those with embossed letters of gold, now dulled by the veil of light grey particles, beg the loudest to be pulled from their confines and re-discovered. This possibility is quickly erased by the meddlesome sound of squeaking breaks outside. She flinches with each slam of the car doors. Voices and jingling keys prompt her to close the notebook and stand-up, where her reflection in the glided framed mirror over the painted white mantle sees her recognizing that the moment is gone.

Some Serious Nonsense from Noplace

NONSense #4

Deep red logothos of preclaton grine
Swim in the yelpernacks hibantial quine.
Kreatol, hobonotist, and welingrope fear
the sadinotist balock with opio tranear.
Frantilio flee and Ropinical nack
I weep for the hopiniton frally drak.
Revenge!
Is the course that the ipily takes.
How clear it becomes to ernikel a nacke!

A bit more alliteration

Wrigglers & Warblers

Worms of the
World
Worry, about
Wheels, water and Walleye.
Wonder? Do they? About
Wrens threatening with pecks?
Without weapons
Warbling warlocks of detection
Whittle the sanctuary of soil.
While the worms
Wriggle beneath in instinctive escape.
Wanderlust wasted on fear.
Weaving
Wayworn and waxy.
Wooing freedom through
Weazen underground wilderness.
Weeds root deep,
Walnut and willows deeper, yet Winged wolverines usually win

A Little Alliteration

Trying to Tame “T”

Take all that is given
Trepidation actively euthanized
Turn into a fiend.
Tangle and tango on
Treacherous uneven ground.
Trouble twinkles like glitter.
Taking steps toward turbulence, with
Transformation of environment, a
Titanic alteration!
Tambour of the new drum beat, on
Tenuous surface, dangerous
To tap without tearing.
Teetotaler resigned and reassigned
To new troop of teachers.
Tourniquet for each other.
Together entombed with
Toddy of torment and
Tales of woe
Terrific mistakes take toll.
Tangibles and talent dissipate, with camaraderie
Tall talk and tattoos document the time, and
Tranquilize the truth.
Tragic family tradition.

How about a poem?

River and Jar

I asked him to leave.
The reasons were there.
No argument.
No rebuttal.

It’s the right thing.
The best thing.
This I know.

Yet it’s lonely here with subsided anger.
Emptiness and non-emotion remain.

A stagnant pond.

Unaffected by the river, as
Life continues to flow by.

It’s not exactly sadness that has engulfed me,
but rather an enormous jar has been placed over me.
Sounds are muffled, space is confined, the air is thick and sparse.

I can’t lift the jar away.
I try, but can only push it along.
It takes great effort.
How long?

The pushing makes me tired.
So I sleep alot.
When I wake the jar is still there.

Just as change placed it over me, only change can remove it.
I pray for change to take hold of my hand.

Lead me back to the river and the cool breeze.

On Experience

Although I believe experience to be a worthy attribute necessary for any human with a desire to grow. I also see it as exponentially subjective in that in some arenas I would be considered an expert of sorts, yet in others only a novice. However, it is still undeniable that I do indeed have plenty of experience in a variety of areas. Therefore, what is the value of experience? The difficulty lies within the choice, (as difficulty so often does) of what particular attribute should be highlighted.
If I consider the 12 plus years I have spent in the world of antiques, I can easily find a great deal of information smashed into those vintage drawers of my brain. But, what’s it worth? This is the most common question directed to the antique dealer, and a question that reflects my feelings toward the knowledge stored in those drawers I mentioned, for if I am not among others in the field or being hounded by those who seek my advice then what is this particular experience worth? Not much. The same goes for the 7 years I spent in specialty retail management. Here I am seen as driven, dedicated, and dependable, an asset capable of creating huge assets -- although not for my own bank accounts. Is this really a valuable or worthy attribute? Perhaps it’s marketable, but it’s not all that worthy. Therefore, it seems experience is not as valuable as it first appears. Then again, perhaps the problem is not with the experience itself, but rather in the kind of experiences we focus on and to what degree we understand the universal experiences that are most often deemed valuable.
A rich person is one who demonstrates both an interest in, and a great deal of empathy towards others. Someone who has used their experiences to shape their understanding of themselves and the role they play in the world. Rather than narrowing our pursuits to please some ambiguous outline of expectation, we should attempt to determine what is important to our sense of self and our deeper identity. The true value of any experience rests in the understanding, both of ourselves and of those we come into contact with, both intimately and superficially. The interactions we have with others throughout our lives are at the heart of who we become, which ultimately is the most valuable experience available.

What is good writing?

So what constitutes good writing? I think that is extremely subjective, even within the individual, for I have written some real absolute garbage that at the time I thought was ‘good’. Of course, years later when I look at these masterpieces of literature I laugh. Same thing goes for what I considered good writing in stories that I was reading. As I stop now to consider this, it seems that my favorites have always come in phases. As a pre-teen, I loved reading Judy Blume books, which seemed to coincide with my growing pains phase; Are You There God It’s Me Margaret was once a bible of sorts. My actual teenage years were way to busy with guys and music to read. Therefore, I concentrated my literary interests to such excellent publications such as, Teen Beat, Seventeen, and Circus. Then came my ‘drama’ phase and V.C. Andrews books fit the bill perfectly. Then was my infamous Danielle Steele phase when I was desperately seeking the perfect man; I never did find one. After this stage, I moved on to Stephen King novels. Now I’m not sure exactly what that means to my life phases, considering that I’ve never been faced with any creature, being, or entity that was trying to kill me, although I do recall a former girlfriend of mine who was pretty frightening.
Strangely enough, the real classics I read as a child, such as The Secret Garden and Charlotte’s Web were probably the only ones that would have been universally considered ‘good,’ with the exception of my wild side phase when Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski were the focus. The truth is, good writing moves me, whether it is my own or it belongs to someone else. I want to be inspired when I read, or provoked, or enlightened, something, anything. I want to read and write sentences that have a rhythm, a tone, a value, an experience, and not didactic, but educational none-the-less. Books like Oscar Wilde‘s The Picture of Dorian Gray, J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher In The Rye, and Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, contain so much more meaning than what is found in the plot; that is good writing. Good writing is like turning on a lamp in a familiar room and seeing something new.

And so it begins....