le voyageur de l'esprit

at the intersection of pompous and genius
at the corner of pretention and philosophy
(judgement in the mind of the beholder)
where postulations undulate
and books' breathe contented sighs
romance in the flourish of a pencil
lead appears as love on another full page
a blooming not in soil but in skull
a synapse's spark
lighting the candle
that burns midnight's oil
and illuminates the map
when thought becomes a journey,
journey becomes a thought.
destination is discovery
untouched grounds
founded in freedom
experience untouched
save for one.























for roo

Another travel reflection

In a weary daze

My westerly gaze

Is caught by the rays

stretching out around cloud break

The sun a beacon, calling me back

As the clouds move right to left 

Across my field of vision

Gathering atop my last location

The sounds of bass, piano, and drums

Necessarily drown out

The hungry gluttons that surround me

in a panicked rush to fill their gullets

I turn away to the window

Tears of rain distorting the view

Of the sun setting here

But warming the ground for my arrival

In my western home.

Season without Reason 09

A new Season without Reason is upon us...Here are my reasons for celebrating life that have nothing to do with gifts or holidays:

1. The presence of all digits (phalanges)

2. Digits that come to you in half sleep: 6458

3. Time with family being better and better each visit

4. Planning trips to Paris

5. Hats!

6. Wireless connections that work

7. Guiltless weight gain with the confidence in losing it

8. lovely lovers

9. awesomely brave travelling friends

10. VHS cassettes from 1987.

11. not having to stick to lists of set quantities

12. Cranium,

13. balderdash, 

14. baseball, 

15. jesus avocado,

16. scrabble

17. music

18. Bill Bryson

19. pizza from the NY tri state area

20. Yuengling

21. Mr. Sushi's all-you-can-eat for $22 Peter and Randy Rolls

stuck in minne

yes, it could be worse

and yes, i'll be home soon

but man

this really sucks

especially with the anticipation of my birthday ruined by weather as well

detachment's subdue

wilted, the flower gave all its beauty

only to have its petals left to dry out

crumbled and crunched

like leaves in fall

and falls that leave

quickly

become something else

no longer recognizable

now cold and stark and quiet

the winter that keeps to itself

too cold to stop and chat

but the flower

now only a stem

looking dead

lookinglostforgotten

simply rather

rather simply

flowing with the season

playing 

smartkeeping 

quietlaying 

low

southwestern colddried 

sorrowripped cracked

red dust filling in the space

where novelty's worn thin

pray home will fill in

without

i am most certainly without purpose here

without family

without purpose

without

plan?

Plan:"A detailed proposal" for achievement, "decided on and arranged for in advance."

Both a noun and a verb.  To have a plan to plan.

Take an action to

Make an action.

Moving forward always.

For some its enough to have any plan.

For some it must be one of their own, 

not decided or influenced by their parents or significant other.

For others its too much to even think of a plan, let alone have one.

For me, purpose exists without plan.

Some of the best things in my life have happened to me

When things didn't go as planned

Or when there was no plan for it to happen

For some, plan exists without purpose.

For comfort, to have an answer when asked.

I need not answer to anyone but myself, this I know.

But right now, my self is asking, "What's your plan?"

My purposeless intentions

May need to be questioned

Will staying open

end up slamming doors?

"Once you attain a certain state, life gives you another goal.  The horizon goes on and on running in front of you, you never reach it, you are always on the way--always reaching, just reaching.  And if you understand that, then the whole tension of the mind disappears, because the tension is to seek a goal, to arrive somewhere...Life is not stagnant--it is flowing and flowing, and there is no other shore.  Once you understand this you start enjoying the journey itself.  Each step is a goal, and there is no goal...Then there is no tension because there is nowhere to go, so you cannot go astray."

-Osho

Hold you in my arms

When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions

It's my worried mind that you quiet

Place your hands on my face

Close my eyes and say

Love is a poor man's food

Don't prophesize

I could hold you in my arms

I could hold you forever

I could hold you in my arms

I could hold you forever

-Ray LaMontagne

i DO believe in fairies! *clapping*

I'll play this til you come online!!!!!

Águas de Março

É pau, é pedra,
é o fim do caminho
É um resto de toco,
é um pouco sozinho

É um caco de vidro,
é a vida, é o sol
É a noite, é a morte,
é um laço, é o anzol

É peroba do campo,
é o nó da madeira
Caingá, candeia,
é o Matita Pereira

É madeira de vento,
tombo da ribanceira
É o mistério profundo,
é o queira ou não queira

É o vento ventando,
é o fim da ladeira
É a viga, é o vão,
festa da cumeeira

É a chuva chovendo,
é conversa ribeira
Das águas de março,
é o fim da canseira

É o pé, é o chão,
é a marcha estradeira
Passarinho na mão,
pedra de atiradeira

É uma ave no céu,
é uma ave no chão
É um regato, é uma fonte,
é um pedaço de pão

É o fundo do poço,
é o fim do caminho
No rosto o desgosto,
é um pouco sozinho

É um estrepe, é um prego,
é uma conta, é um conto
É uma ponta, é um ponto,
é um pingo pingando

É um peixe, é um gesto,
é uma prata brilhando
É a luz da manhã,
é o tijolo chegando

É a lenha, é o dia,
é o fim da picada
É a garrafa de cana,
o estilhaço na estrada

É o projeto da casa,
é o corpo na cama
É o carro enguiçado,
é a lama, é a lama

É um passo, é uma ponte,
é um sapo, é uma rã
É um resto de mato,
na luz da manhã

São as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coração

É uma cobra, é um pau,
é João, é José
É um espinho na mão,
é um corte no pé

É um passo, é uma ponte,
é um sapo, é uma rã
É um belo horizonte,
é uma febre terçã

São as águas de março
fechando o verão
É a promessa de vida
no teu coração

Waters of March

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart

The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone

A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow

The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find

A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale

A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night

A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud

Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe

A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain

A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road

A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.

Ray LaMontagne

"Don't let your mind get weary and confused
Your will be still, don't try
Don't let your heart get heavy child
Inside you there's a strength that lies

Don't let your soul get lonely child
It's only time, it will go by
Don't look for love in faces, places
It's in you, that's where you'll find kindness

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now

Don't lose your faith in me
And I will try not to lose faith in you
Don't put your trust in walls
'Cause walls will only crush you when they fall

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now "

...with friendship and independence

you're a voice in a box
a face on a screen
some words on some paper
how much does it mean
to chase down this knowing
to seek this unknown
to fill up our minds
and hope our heart's sewn

New Mexico

life through my studying eyes

For someone who has had 24 transitions from summer to fall, this is neverland.
My body and brain prepare for the cold, my eyes remain in wonder, my skin soaks it in, hoping to retain as much as possible for the delayed chill.
Its magical and feels as though I've been blessed with extra time, that my life could possibly go at a slower pace, and be enjoyed more densely with every found second.
land of enchantment, land of entrapment,
my little embankment of sunshine and time.

Nothing Brings Me Down

"Home alone and happy
Nothing brings me down
Full of wine, unsteady
Nothing brings me down
What's left of the rain runs down my roof
Nothing brings me down
The night is lush the air is still
Nothing brings me down

Dum dum dum dum dum dum

The windows are open, the flies are in
Nothing brings me down
The phones are off the music's on
Nothing brings me down

Dum dum dum dum dum dum

Home alone and happy
Nothing brings me down
My love for you is ready
Nothing brings me down
My love for you is ready"

-lyrics from the Emiliana Torrini song

can questions lie?

must a funk be analyzed,
broken down,
categorized,
justified,
explained
to be gotten out of?
because i don't want to know why i'm here.
i just don't want to be.
or maybe i do? maybe i don't want to face the truth of what i am feeling and why?

can't i just leave question marks?
and use them as a ladder?
is there an escape?
is that the answer?

Funny 'cuz its True

More Bill Bryson from The Lost Continent

"Having gone without dinner the night before, I intended to indulge myself in that greatest of all American gustatory pleasures - going out for Sunday breakfast.

Everybody in America goes out for Sunday breakfast. It is such a popular pastime that you generally have to line up for a table, but it's always worth the wait. Indeed, the inability to achieve instant oral gratification is such an unusual experience in America that lining up actually intensifies the pleasure. You wouldn't want to do it all the time, of course, you wouldn't want to get British about it or anything, but once a week for twenty minutes is "kinda neat," as they say. One reason you have to line up is that it take the waitress about thirty minutes just to take each order. First you have to tell her whether you want your eggs sunny-side up, over easy, scrambled, poached, parboiled, or in an omelette, and in an omelette, whether you want it to be a plain, cheese, vegetable, hot-spicy, or chocolate nut 'n' fudge omelette; and then you have to decide whether you want your toast on white, rye, whole wheat, sourdough, or pumpernickel bread and whether you want whipped butter, pat butter, or low-cholesterol butter substitute; and then there's a complicated period of negotiation in which you ask if you can have cornflakes instead of the cinnamon roll and link sausages instead of patties. So the waitress, who is only sixteen years old and not real smart, has to go off to the manager and ask him whether that's possible, and she comes back and tells you that you can't have cornflakes instead of the cinnamon roll, but you can have Idaho frieds instead of the short stack of pancakes, or you can have an English muffin and bacon instead of whole wheat toast, but only if you order a side of hashed browns and a large orange juice. This is unacceptable to you, and you decide that you will have waffles instead, so the waitress has to rub everything out with her nubby eraser and start all over again. And across the room the line on the other side of the "Please Wait to Be Seated" board grows longer and longer, but the people don't mind because the food smells so good and, anyway, all this waiting is, as I say, kinda neat."

Shoulda got a Mac...

thanks...http://faildogs.com/

The Lost Continent 2

One more, because this one deserves an entry of its own, haha!

...inside a Pennsylvania Dutch restaurant...
"We were ushered into the dining room with nine strangers and all seated together at one big trestle table.
There must have been fifty other such tables in the room...
I've never seen so much food. I couldn't see over the top of my plate. It was all delicious...I ate so much my armpits bulged. But still the food kept coming. Just when I thought I would have to summon a wheelchair to get me to the car, the waitress took away all the platters and bowls, and started bringing desserts--apple pies, chocolate pies, bowls of home-made ice cream, pastries, flans and God knows what else.
I kept eating. It was too delicious to pass up. Buttons popped off my shirt; my trousers burst open. I barely had the strength to lift my spoon, but I kept shoveling the stuff in. It was grotesque. Food began to leak from my ears. And still I ate. I ate more food that night than some African villagers eat in a lifetime. Eventually, mercifully, the waitress prised the spoons out of our hands and took the dessert stuff away, and we were able to stumble zombielike out into the night.
We got into the car, too full to speak...I felt as if I had eaten the contents of a cement mixer. I lay on the back seat of the car, my feet in the air, and moaned softly. I vowed that I would never eat again, and meant it. But two hours later, when we arrived back at my brother's house, the agony had abated and my brother and I were able to begin a new cycle of gross overconsumption, beginning with a twelve-pack of beer and bucket of pretzels from his kitchen and concluding, in the early hours of the evening, with a plate of onion rings and two-foot-long submarine sandwiches, full of goo and spices, at an all-night eatery out on Highway 11."

-The Lost Continent, Bill Bryson

The Lost Continent

Bill Bryson is amazing. I can't wait to read all of his other books. I'm not quite done with this one, but wanted to share so of the best passages so far. His wit, sarcasm, and ebb and flow in pace are ideal for a book like this. If you've ever taken, or ever WANTED to take a cross country road trip, please read it. Being someone that has done that, it was exciting to read how his take on various places, like the Grand Canyon, were almost my words exactly for describing the experience, suggesting something very undeniable and universally moving about the oddities and beauties of the United States.

"The last time I had been in New York was when I was sixteen and my friend Stan and I came out to visit my brother and his wife, who were living there then. They had an apartment in a strange, Kafkaesque apartment complex in Queens called Lefrak City. It consisted of about a dozen identical tall, featureless buildings clustered around a series of lonesome quadrangles, the sort of quadrangles where rain puddles stand for weeks and the flowerbeds are littered with supermarket carts. Each building was like a vertical city, with its own grocery store, drugstore, laundromat and so on. I don't remember the details except that each building was taller than the tallest building in Des Moines and that the total population was something like 50,000--bigger than most Iowa towns. I had never conceived of so many people gathered in one place. I couldn't understand why in such a big, open, country as America people would choose to live like that. It wasn't as if this were something temporary, a place to spend a few months while waiting for their ranch house in the suburbs to be built. This was home. This was it. Thousands and thousands of people would live out their lives never having their own backyard, never having a barbecue, never stepping out the back door at midnight to have a pee in the bushes and check out the stars. Their children would grow up thinking that supermarket carts grew wild, like weeds."

and in Vermont...
"One village I went through had about four stores and one of them was a Ralph Lauren Polo Shop. I couldn't think of anything worse than living in a place where you could buy a$200 sweater but not a can of baked beans. Actually, I could think of a lot of worse things--cancer of the brain, watching every episode of a TV miniseries starring Joan Collins, having to eat at a Burger Chef more than twice in one year, reaching for a glass of water in the middle of the night and finding that you've just taken a drink from your grandmother's denture cup, and so on. But I think you get my point."

and in Amish country...
"Travel articles and movies like Witness generally gloss over this side of things, but the fact is that Lancaster County is now one of the most awful places in America, especially on weekends when traffic jams sometimes stretch for miles. Many of the Amish themselves have given up and moved to places like Iowa and upper Michigan where they are left alone. Out in the countryside, particularly on the back roads, you can still sometimes see the people in their funny dark clothes working in the fields or driving their distinctive black buggies down the highway, with a long line of tourist cars creeping along behind, pissed off because they can't get by and they really want to be in a Bird in Hand so that they can get some more funnel cakes and SnoCones and perhaps buy a wrought-iron wine rack or combination mailbox-weather vane to take back home to Fartville with them. I wouldn't be surprised if a decade from now there isn't a real Amish person left in the country."

-The Lost Continent, Bill Bryson

Selfish self discovery?

The article linked below is a good one about a topic close to my heart.

All we have in this life is ourselves. I was not put on this earth to have children, to make a husband happy, or to find the cure for cancer. (I couldn't believe it when someone accused me of being selfish when I said I did not want to have children later in life. I don't even HAVE the children yet...how is it selfish? I am NOT HAVING them in part so that my pursuits to know and better myself don't take away from their lives. But they aren't ALIVE yet...how could it be selfish if their is no one to be selfishly affecting?) While I am here, I owe it to myself to make the most of my time here, as do you. In doing so, I have been told that I've touched others to do the same in their own lives, find their purpose, travel, make their own mind up about the way they want to live their lives in a way they never gave themselves the option or chance to do before. So, you see, if we all take care of ourselves, truly getting in touch with real happiness, not materialistic happiness, not happiness through power and control, that positive energy will emanate out to improve the world.

But it all starts from within. And its not selfish. My recent read of Eat Pray Love really hits this home as well, a huge theme being, when you set out to help yourself, you end up helping others.

http://www.srichinmoybio.co.uk/blog/life/is-self-discovery-a-selfish-act/

textbook excitement

Certainly can't recall ever being as exciting about a textbook as I was when I read this:

The old adage "You get out of it only what you put into it" aptly describes a cognitive perspective. Some students approach learning in passive and "shallow" ways, either failing to engage fully or relying heavily on rote memorization. Both cognitive research and our experience as educators tell us that the resultant learning is likely to be both superficial and transitory. In contrast, other students' attempts at learning clearly are aimed at deeper understanding; they relate new information to what they already know, organize it, and regularly check their comprehension.

-Cognitive Psychology and Instruction, by Roger H. Bruning (Author), Gregg J. Schraw (Author), Monica M. Norby (Author), Royce R. Ronning (Author)