This picture above (excuse the cigars) gives the culmination of my world. Hand me a cup of tea and couple of good books as a way to pass the time, and I'll be happy. One day I wish to own a small quaint flat or house and be able to show off my friends and family all around in an overabundance of frames of different sizes and styles. Yes, I may have simple goals, but that is my wish. As it is, you should see my room. After years of attending weddings with my parents under the guise of "camera assistant," I have attained more than my share of little photo favor frames. I have at least 6 empty ones lining my shelves and desks.
Welcome to MAD MUSINGS, where I grant myself the right to just babble on til the dust settles.
I actually needed to expand my personal site so I could honestly feel free to post all my of my works as much as I saw fit.
And so here we are.
But I digress, forgive me. I am a writer, no doubt. Since the age of 6, I have had the creative bug biting at my brain. I remember first grade and the "published books," where our teacher would take the best stories, laminate cardboard for a cover and we'd have books. I never got one done, however. *shrugs* Everyone's a critic. Intermittently from that grade on, whenever there was nothing else to do to keep us busy, the teachers would break out into "Creative Writing" time! Ooooh, let me tell I would get so excited when those words were uttered. A time where I could let loose my imagination and write of places and times only I can forsee.
And then it came to me; funny how the concept never occured to me before. There I was (for the first and last time that year) in fifth grade in my glory during creative writing time - and then I realized- "WAIT A MINUTE?!! Why do I have to wait for the teachers to write when I want? I had paper at home, did I not? And pens? And spare time? What was stopping me from writing OUTSIDE school?"
And there is the birth of the writer you now know :o) In the following pages, you will find both old and new material that I found to display only the best of my ability (trust me there are many dogs that litter my room and degrade the paper it's written upon). I write poetry, of which actually gets FINISHED! When I sit down to a short story, it never ends up short, and has more than its share of complications. I sort of feel like Stephen King in this way. I hope you enjoy. My only dream is that something here, as with Roland Barthes "punctum," (Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography) pricks your imagination and whisks you away into inspiration. That is every writer's wish.
"Ah, what an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I've had in it, how it's touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the Atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot or cold, damp or dryness, I'm amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet, that's what we do. Come to think of it, Literature is the record of our discontent."
