I haven’t written too much lately that is worth seeing the light of day here. Things come to me in blurps then quickly fade away.
Here are a few:
Main Entry: ref•u•gee
Pronunciation: "re-fyu-'jE, 're-fyu-"
Etymology: French réfugié, past participle of (se) réfugier to take refuge, from Latin refugium
: one that flees; especially : a person who flees to a foreign country or power to escape danger or persecution
I try my best to be politically correct. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Sometimes though something comes along and makes me want to sit down in the middle of the road and scream out of frustration until the cows come home .
Refugee. Evacuee. It’s just a matter of semantics. Why does everything have to be an issue? Really, a label is the least of our worries right now.
This isn’t so much by me but by John Donne. Can’t say I agree with all that he wrote in his treatise, but these two are powerful thoughts to ponder, of which I return to often.
“And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another…”
“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee…”
I don’t know where I was going with this. I guess that’s why I didn’t write anything else. Who knows, maybe the rest will come to me.
It is moments like now that make me feel like smoking, desperately so. Intellectually, I know it’s just a form of self-medication. However, since when are feelings rational? I argue with myself. The existential hedonist tells me to smoke, drink, and be as merry as I can make myself, because tomorrow I die. We all die – eventually. It’s the eventually that stops me from smoking.
Then there was this bit of creative writing, not really sure I can call it a poem, not sure what it is, maybe just another blurp expelled from my brain.
May I borrow your rose-colored glasses?
I don’t like the view through mine anymore.
I’ve tried to close my eyes.
The images flash like a movie on my lids.
Can I go back to being ten again?
Scratch that, five is what I need to be.
Maybe four would be better.
By seven, life wasn’t lookin’ so sweet.
Was life really simpler back when?
I think, maybe, we were lied to.
It grows harder, meaner, uglier the older you get.
Reflection is an opiate like religion.
Will you sell me your pipe dream?
The real dope just doesn’t smoke like it used to.
It seems lately reality is a bitter pill to swallow.
Maybe I should chase it with a little ethanol.
So there you have it, a few of my blurps from the last week, or so.
Ah, you ask, what a blurp is.
Well, a blurp is like a burp. A burp is a release of gas but not powerful enough to be a full out belch. In farting terms, it would be breaking wind.
As such, a blurp is a thought, or maybe a piece of a thought that doesn’t quite stand alone but there’s no energy to add more to it. So, it’s a blurp. You can add the rest.
NOTE: Gratuitous photo is of Santa Barbara as taken from the pier. Went there last weekend. Beautiful! Hope to goback soon.