An Ugly Word

I think the word ‘blog’ is an ugly word. I just don’t know why people can’t use the word ‘journal.’


Well, I like that. I’ve never cared for the word “blog,” either. It’s up there with “moist” and
“hangnail” on my list of words unworthy of creative expression on any level. But this website isn’t my journal.

I’ve kept an occasional journal of exceptional events for many years. At some point several years ago, I switched from a fountain pen to a  computer. I’ts just not fun, doesn’t draw me in. I prefer pen and paper now.  I write in it twice a day, since resuming in earnest last fall. Since Halloween I’ve filled a 240 page notebook and half of another. I write about gratitude, my sleep patterns, my sensations of well being (or unwell), about Being and Time and how hell is mostly other people. Present company excepted, of course.

I’m a big old introvert, so writing time also makes me feel recharged.

 We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and privacy: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.

— C.S. Lewis

In my journal, I’m trying to hold on to my life: to people I genuinely care about, to frustrations and celebrations and gifts and sorrows and everything that’s draining away. So it goes.



Wow. I wrote that then told my Echo to play songs by Moby. This is the first one it played. I kid you not. A kindred thinker. 



Feeling Bouncy

Here’s some fun music for your weekend. I’m a Deadhead but I’m into lots of music, especially jam bands like Phish. This is an upbeat song that usually lifts my spirits. Peace.

A Song for the First Day of Spring

I was thinking about this old song earlier today, when I was doing a bit of housework for the first day of spring. Certain members of my family used to sing it when I was small, and it would make me cry. Oh our insatiable sense of humor!

Woody Guthrie actually doesn’t sing it nearly as well as they did. He doesn’t convey much – if any – emotion. But oh, the high drama of those bygone days!

I’m teasing. But it was the first day of spring and the nights will begin to warm now, and so the time had surely come and could not be forestalled, to put my flannel sheets away.


Throwing Stones

Sometimes I’m amazed by how beautifully song lyrics and poems find their relevance in my life. Especially songs by The Grateful Dead.

I was riding my bike today and listening to Throwing Stones on the trusty iPod. I thought Yes! There we are! “So it goes, we make what we made since the world began.”

Here’s a video of the boys playing that song, March 1993, with some of the lyrics.

Commissars and pin-stripe bosses
Roll the dice.
Any way they fall,
Guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray,
Selling guns ‘stead of food today.

So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin’ stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

Heartless powers try to tell us
What to think.
If the spirit’s sleeping,
Then the flesh is ink
History’s page will thus be carved in stone.
And we are here, and we are on our own
On our own.
On our own.
On our own.