Daddy, we drive on roads, we walk on roads….which means you should hold...– Grace
rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.– thoreau
Boogers are not very cool.– Grace
A Short Story About the Passage of Time
The other day, I found some ants in the cat dish, and noticed they appeared to be getting in from a crack in the wall. It looks like something that had water damage in the past. I sprinkled a copious amount of cinnamon along the edge of the trim to keep them out of my place. Since then, I have spent a lot of time looking downward and inspecting what is on the floor. It’s a shift in...
Old friends cannot be created out of hand. Nothing can match the treasure of...– Wind, Sand and Stars
Asleep in Perfection
The more that time goes by, the easier it is to forget how small we are when we take our first breath. The frail hands. The inability to fend for ourselves as we wait to be fed, loved, and nurtured. Until the day comes when we can turn around and repay the favour for someone else, we are takers. Quick as it’s come and gone, it’s my turn to give that back. My age of innocence is...
Perhaps I Should Have Brought Matches
Waking up at 1:30 in the afternoon is a feeling that is very unusual to me, yet I’m fast discovering that so many of my friends truly are night walkers. That period of time from 2:00pm until 3:30pm is equivocal to my 4:30am to 6:00am window. That time where everyone becomes a professional alarm clock smasher and one foot mysteriously makes its way out of the blanket so the cat starts...
One’s suffering disappears when one lets oneself go, when one yields -...– St. Exupéry
In the pursuit of learning, every day something is acquired. In the pursuit of...– Tao Te Ching, #48
Being a southpaw, I’ve always had the fondest memories of filling mountains of sketchbooks and not being able to hide it. A young lad, I’d go out to play with a nice clump of charcoal smeared into the blade of my hand. White shirts were always a miss for me because they couldn’t keep up with the charcoal fragments and splattering of ink. For the past four years, my sketchbooks...