Todays word of the day... Puckish

While writing up this post, the notification on my phone beeps. My dictionary app providing me with the word of the day. Its meaning might not transfer directly to this post... but somehow it relates.

Well that is that... The playoffs are over for the Blackhawks.  I watched the scores from afar. Caught what little I could of the games. It wasn't their best year. It wasn't their worst either. The team was not quite the same with Sharpie gone.

Maybe now the Cup will follow the Stars... Somehow navigate its way to him. (Mind you just this season.) That would be nice.

Now we fall into the in-between time.

We will see you again in October.

I put the zing in Spring

Spring
Days stretch longer... brighter
Flowers, Birdsong.
Something inside awakens... stirs
Keyboard, Canvas
Shapes take form... definition
Clickityclack, clickityclack
Stroke Stroke Stroke... Zing


I have dug into the files and pulled out a promising piece of writing I started sometime ago.  Feels good to work the words once again.

On canvas I have been challenged. Three generations tackling the same subject in different mediums. Should be interesting to see what we each turn out.

Between the lines.

I have a book club going on here and we just finished a story called the "The Goldfinch."  It was an interesting story. Tragic and beautiful. A story of a trauma victim, the secret/illegal position of a priceless painting, detachment, drug abuse and criminal friends. At times, I hated the style of the author (It took 10 years to write so I expect that the grammar errors were intentional, shudder)  but all told it was a decent, if not long, read.  I suppose I could call it relate-able in that I have seen the life it portrayed for a time in Vegas and I  could confirm the reality of it to my European and Australian book mates. But it was not a book that I considered Quotable or one that touched me personally. At least not until the last few pages where the story's main character  is reflecting on how he came to put his story into the words we have just read.  He is reflecting on his journals. How they are filled with personal letters to his dead mother, Notes from the interactions with his mentor, dreams, social moments and other misc. gobble de gook. I can relate to how fragmented notebooks become. Anyway, he explores the notion that despite the fact that he omits all discussion of the painting (his secret) he sees it on every page that he has ever written. In his own words:

"Because: if our secrets define us, as opposed to the face we show the world: then the painting was the secret that raised me above the surface of life and enabled me to know who I am. And it's there: in my notebooks, every page, even though it's not. Dream and magic, Magic and delirium. The Unified Field Theory. A secret about a secret."

He also delves into the necessity to find joy among the horrors. 

Anyway, the book is done and on the shelf it goes. Whew. Time to read something light and fun.

 

A bit of bliss

There is something about the sun that warms not only skin but also heart and mind. It produces joy and touch of euphoria. Life brightens. Flowers emerge.  On a day like today anything seems possible. 

I need a song to sing

I need a song to sing. I shuffle through the music horde of my mind and land on a tune. Hum a bar of "you've lost that loving feeling" and then I stop. That's not it. My fire burns eternal. What then? I don't know. I've been going through this process over and over. But the tune eludes me. An irritation. Consternation. If I were to make up a song on my own it would start with a scream of "Ahhhhh!" Accompanied with hair pulling. Hmmm... Long live Punk!