I really wish I could sleep later than 8:00am on a weekend. It seems my body just won't allow it anymore. Plenty to do today, lots of animation to block and plenty of tunes to jam to doing it. It's amazing how much reading old writings can bring you back to where you were when you wrote those words. Any art in which we must dip the brush into our very soul will surely bear that mark. We fix something of ourselves to that moment of creation - time does not dim its illumination even if those feelings are much changed upon reflection. And tracing from then to now, we see where we've been and hopefully if we turn around we catch a glimpse of where we're going. Continuing the look a old writings, I've got a varied collection today. Swimming in a Cynic's Sea - 1998 I drift and sink amidst the hypocrisy Of myself and of that which I carelessly say; Wishing there an end to this seekers road- Islands of peace on which to rest. I question you until there is no you That I see; For all of my inquiries Fill the void of my mind until I feel As if I will burst into a thousand shards Of a once stable son. All I desire is to know and follow you- You call and all I do is run Back to my cynic's sea and find comfort In the insanity of a void of concrete truth And an ocean of contemplation fills my gaping mouth Till all I taste is the salt of the faithless' sea And I wait to be thrown out And be trampled by men- For I fear I will never be salty again. Loss - 1997 Which way is up? Which way is down? They reach and surround me without a sound or whisper; Enveloping me with dark hands full of blood (It tastes like wine); Offering sensuous delights for nothing...free? Ecstasy for a night, no hidden cost, no sense of loss (until morning). The Son rises and finds me asleep in the light; clutching the fruit of the season's container, Oh, my beloved Sustainer! What has become of my steadfast heart? "My child, but open your eyes, look and perceive: surely it is more blessed to give than receive; Or did you not know...the wine you drank was the blood of infant saints made sweet by but a lie of generosity." Conformity - 1995 Standing in a masquerade; Keeping step in life's parade grows old and silly; Yet I see the mask I hold in my hands is just what conformity demands. They just wouldn't understand the me I want to be is not the me they daily see; So as they perceive, I become; God, that sounds awfully dumb.