Author, Computer Scientist, Musician, and Photographer
Sometimes my mind is cloudy even when skies are clear. It’s on these kinds of days, even my name is mud and I question whether the grass is green at all on the other side. It also makes me wonder if my muse only cares to visit when all is gloom and doom, only allowing inspiration to strike me like lighting in a brainstorm. The words seem then to come out of me about 100 mph like a tongue twister.
After a long day, when you are winding down, the day seems shorter as the clock winds away. Each tick of the second hand draws ever nearer to the stroke of midnight when all is black and still. It is at this hour, I neither wish to be asleep or awake for fear of what I shall miss. Tomorrow is but a modest promise that one today will break. We know that time is of the essence but what exactly is the essence of time? Is it to serve only as a reminder of how limited we are by it when time itself seems limitless? What would be the purpose of that but to create a culture of incredible impatience? An impatience that leads to rash decisions, rashes can result in sores that leave you looking not unlike Job, and crying out to God asking why, to which God will just look at his pocket watch and sigh.
Is the ‘trick’ in St. Patrick’s Day why so many of us choose to celebrate this holiday by drinking until we’re a bit green in the face. I mean, how many can truly say they’ve seen the end of a rainbow, and if they have, can they also say they found a pot of gold waiting for them there? And don’t even get me started about four leaf clovers, the odds of finding one are about one in 10,000. You are just as likely to be injured by a toilet — that’s something to keep in mind when you’ve had that one glass too many of Jameson today. Finally, I’m not so sure saying, ‘kiss me I’m Irish’ works even if you are Irish, but you’re more than welcome to kiss the Blarney Stone, I’m sure.
With all that’s been happening in the world, I sit back and think to myself: How nice would it be to just live in la-la land? Where pixies and nymphs do sprightly jigs while singing catchy little tunes in the sunny, yet cool afternoon. In the entrance of a nearby cave, a troll takes a load off on an overgrown toadstool as he flicks through the pages of a book by Tolstoy. His nose softly whistling notes like a piccolo. Down by the bay, mermaids bathe and wade. Their splashes and laughter, just as musical as the crescendo of waves. Yeah, la-la land sounds pretty good right about now.
I need to learn how to squeeze more creative juices out of me like a lemon without making the words that come out leave a sour taste in your mouth. Maybe I should think of them coming from something more like an orange that way I could write pulp fiction. I could just take all of it, stuff it into a blender, and whip up one big writing smoothie. Every sip, each sentence, so incredibly healthy and refreshing. I think I’ll go see if I have enough ice…
