When I was a child this odd and haunting song was often heard on the radio. I didn’t know what it was called or who sang it but it was both dreamy and sad. Something about life’s illusions. What even are life’s illusions? I would ponder.
There was a carousel or was that a different song? No, it was a ‘ferris wheel’ and a ‘circus crowd’.
In a world of increasing Artificial Intelligence, are you missing the human touch? I am. In 1992, Bruce Springsteen penned a song titled “Human Touch”. I suppose he was ahead of his time.
These days, the human touch seems to be missing, a dreadful consequence of automated life. It’s not that I’m a super social butterfly–in some ways I am the opposite. I prefer to remain in my studio, as many writers and artists do, rather than host a party for example.
Welcome spooky, October…looks like me trying to come up with a brilliant blog post…
Well, September came and went in a flash. I didn’t write one post here and that is a first for me. I have never gone a whole month without writing something here. Should this concern me? I remember the early days of my blogging back in 2011-12 and I didn’t understand bloggers who would take long, unexpected breaks but now I do. They had been in the game for several years and eventually, we change.
You are an unfinished poem Stuck in my heart, Appearing on the horizon Like an unanswered question Simple as one-two-three, Further from reality But as real as flesh on bone The lively echo of your smile Keeps me thinking, What's left incomplete Is sometimes just as sweet As the holy "amen" At the end of a silent prayer -LTW-
I’m thinking there are two types of people in this world: those who mend and those who discard. Actually let me add a third type; those who want to mend but cannot. They take their mending to have it done by a pro (smart folks).
I used to be in the second and third category but as I’ve gotten a bit older, I mend more often. Since I was a child, I have almost ‘enjoyed’ sewing by hand. Almost. My grandma taught me how to thread the needle and how to make a few stitches. I used to watch her ‘darning’ my father’s socks when she came to stay with us. She was pretty good with a sewing needle. She did not have a sewing machine.
I write this in memory of my father and don’t worry, I’ve tagged it in humor. It’s my recollection of one of the last times I saw him before his unexpected death. Anyone who has a perfectionist for a father will get a chuckle out of this anecdote…
Recently, as I waited at a red light I looked at all the license plates on the cars surrounding me. Not necessarily to see if they were from somewhere far away but to inspect the screws securing the plates. Strange, I know.
I blame my late father. I can still see him on that sunny July afternoon: bent down lower than a man his age should be. The object of his inspection? The oversized screws holding my license plate. Much to his consternation not only were these screws obviously too big for the job, but they were unsightly. This is just the thing that could keep my father awake at night.
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