Waste Land

Waste Land

barren mind

empty pockets

moral ruin

bankrupt art

desolate heart

you

were my only hope

**

Prose is kicking my butt again.  I started writing a poem this morning (not this one) and then it occurred to me that the lines would work in my new (I said new) short story, titled 'Mute'.  Prose is stealing my poetry!  How rude!  I don't mind so much though because I'm writing, the Muse is active and I'm enjoying this long stretch of creative energy.  

I confess that I've been thinking a little bit more about Greyson (see Half Windsor Knot) and about his back-story.  I feel like I will at some point return to him and hope he'll be more open to telling me what needs to be told.

I'm out of sorts today.  I have a gaggle of butterflies in my tummy and my hands feel sweaty.  I'm on edge for some reason and I can't explain why.  Doesn't help that we've been delivered another blast of wind by way of freezing cold, gusty wind and below zero temps. Braving the wind without earbuds today is going to be simply awful.  Let's pray my goofy winter hat his in the bottom of my work bag somewhere.

I purchased tickets for me and two friends to attend the Jay Smith memorial concert at Casino Nova Scotia on Sunday.  Smith was a young, vibrant musician and human being.  He died while on tour with Matt Mays and it has sent a giant wave of sadness through our community of artists and music lovers out her on the East Coast and across the country.  In loss, there is a tremendous amount of healing power in music.  I just know that room will be full of good humans pulling together in one long song for a fallen brother.  That's when you  know just how powerful music is, in its healing elements, in it's beauty.  One room, one voice, one human heart.

Not a lot to share today other than this teeny poem and the knowledge that I am yet again on another journey with a few new characters.  I am pleased as punch.

Long week, short blog entry.

In propinquity,

Nic