It’s official overkill. Media, in all its forms, spanking our sensibilities beyond anything we’ve ever known before. How do we make sense of it all?

People are drawing lines. Some for the first time, squiggling into areas they’ve never pictured themselves entering. Others are emboldening the ones they’ve drawn with intent all their life.

Time to draw upon our own instincts, understanding and truth.

But do reads the Wikileaks. Do be aware of what the news channels are saying and not saying. There is something going on here that feels like a smarmy hand on a crowded subway.

 

One of the most poignant posts to come across my social media ticker tape this past year declared:

The LEFT wing and the RIGHT wing are both equal parts of the same bird.

After watching the last debate, I felt compelled to interpret the above saying with a little doodle.

What can we live with? What are we willing to die for? Can we be compelled to greatness  as a nation while such corruption and depravity pools up about our ankles? No one will get out unscathed from the bile surrounding the voting booths this year. Each of us will track something home, into the sanctity of our private lives no doubt.

Light a candle. Watch the shadows dance. Pick a card, any card …

shadowpuppets

Square Meal

If we are what we eat, I should look like a twisted pile of spaghetti right about now. Fresh Romano latently clinging to my olive-oiled, garlic-scented self. You don’t want to sit next to someone like me on a plane.

What we intake affects us, period. Just by sipping a single gulp of air outside a Beijing airport, I fear losing minutes off my life–not to mention the cumulative time lost to Camels and other misbegotten butts I’ve bummed in years past.

Slow motion strangulation.

How many kale shakes does it take to erase a life of indulgence? How many backyard pools could I have filled with all the molten cheese I’ve consumed?

We are what we eat, but that doesn’t change who we are inside. We are still the bones down below we began with–a framework of calcified dust that we get to decorate, and hang our outfits, accomplishments, and mishaps on.

To breathe well, eat well, and to live well with the choices I have left, is the idea.

 

The Write Room

The only thing more infinite than space, is the options we have to fill it. I’ve moved around a bunch in my life; tried many different types of living quarters. It’s been a perpetual search for the right room to write in.

Sometimes that room was outdoors, on the water, over the coffee shop, next to the park, along the river, in that cabin, studio, condo, tent, sailboat, I once spent that chilled to the marrow winter living in, on, near.

I miss them all, yet I’m always anxious to pound the next nail my hat will hang on.

Currently, I’ve moved three times in the one house I’m living in: from the patio, spare bedroom, to the now living room of this, the first rental home in decades I’ve had to lease myself into. I know it’s only a matter of time before I vacate the contract and continue the search for that mythically paramount home for life begging me from the periphery to occupy, occupy me now. _dsf5962

Still, the way we choose to operate in our space, how it feels, next to the window or not, by the  heater, fan, cracked door, or fridge … is up to our own, perfect, reasoning. But no matter the space we fill to do the work in, the pros can only come from that hidden spot deep inside us, which we house with our heart, mind, and flesh.

Somewhere deep within that matrix of our etherial arteries, the imagination can punch holes in the stubborn walls which surround us, illuminating the dark stuff that lurks in the crimson shadows of our inner essence. Here’s to opening that vein and letting it bleed.