Saturday, February 11, 2006

Back in a Few

Having some inclement mental weather. Heavy overcast with occasional showers. I plan to spend the next 48 hours doing some journaling and heavy thinking and see if I can come to some decisions.

I also have to work on my income taxes. That's always good for 2 or 3 months of bitching, moaning, and cussing. This time of year also brings to mind the old saying: "Taxation without representation is tyranny." Yeah, I know we supposedly have a represntative government, but those bozos are only representing themselves and whoever writers the biggest check.

Back next week. With a sunnier disposition, I hope.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The Sky Is Falling! The Sky Is Falling!

We must go and tell the King!

The weather forecast calls for light snow flurries tonight and tomorrow. Here in Central Georgia, just the mention of snow is enough to send everyone into Looney-Land. We're easily amused down here.

Actually, I'm more worried about Saturday. We're looking at mixed precipitation and highs that may not reach 40F. Since al-Qaeda couldn't destroy us with fire, the Canadians are going to try with ice. Damn Northern terrorists! Hi Melly! Thanks bunches.

A fun time will be had by all. That's an order.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Let the Boy Speak

Here's a brief snippet from one of my assignments for the 2YN class at Forward Motion. It got away from me a little bit and doesn't quite fit the assignment, but I kinda like it.

A lot of people consider my style of writing to be florid and over the top. I certainly don't claim to be Hemingway, nor do I completely subscribe to his philosophy of writing. This is my voice. It expresses my thoughts in a way that I find pleasing. You can't possibly please everybody, and trying to fit your voice into someone else's vision of what it should be will only leave your writing flat and boring. You have to let yourself go, speak in your own voice, be true to your own vision. That's my opinion, for what it's worth. Your mileage may vary. Do not use near heat or open flame.



I stood across the street and leaned against a lamppost, listening. The tenor sax screamed into the night, hoarse and raw with passion. The piano tinkled and twirled, dancing over, under, around, and through, weaving a teasing harmony and leading the saxophone onward. The guitar was smooth, almost unnoticeable, satin sheets and cool wine. Ringing cymbals and rattling snares lit the music with flickering firelight, and, underneath it all, the bass guitar thumped a ever more frantic heartbeat, driving the intensity ever upward.

I've never been much for bars, but this music tugged at me, insisting that I get closer, investigate the magic that filled the darkness. I crossed the street, dodging a taxi along the way, and pulled the door open. The sound embraced me and pulled me inside. The bar was dim and smoky, as these places tend to be, and the band stood on a small, brightly-lit stage at one end of the room.

The sax player immediately commanded my attention. He swayed and bobbed, legs apart,eyes half-closed. Sweat dripped from his red face like a river of tears. The sounds his horn made rose from a soul-deep well and rolled over us, as irresistible as an ocean tide.