Life At Windrush Lake...

Behind This Gate

A friend of mine lives behind this gate. I drop in from time to time just to hear and experience his philosophy on life. He calls himself a professional fisherman but I don't think he ever goes fishing, even though he has this old fishing boat that he named “Friend Ship.” He has a challenging mind to understand and always has on one of those lightweight fishing shirts with his name printed across the pocket, underscored by the words “Professional Fisher Man.”

On this morning he was casting this green shad looking lure across his swimming pool. “Just Practicing,” he called out as I stepped through the gate. 

I remember the first time we met. I was out for my morning walk when I passed him near this new house that was being framed by a Mexican crew. The south of the border music was so loud you could hear it from a block away.

As we approached each other, he said, “Hi” and I responded, “Not very are you?” He smiled of course and then he commented on the loud music…

“Does it make you want to pull your hair out?”

"No, but it does make me have an appetite for Tortilla Soup.”

So off we went and enjoyed a bowl of Tortilla Soup, more dark beer than we needed and became good friends.

The line he left me with this morning as I walked toward the gate… "Hey Doc, have you heard that my son went off to become a Buddhist Monk?”

I smiled and waved behind my head, knowing he only has two daughters…I Think?… To this day, I have never seen him go fishing...Doc

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I don't stand still and look around

On all the hills I haven't hoed,

And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'

No, not as there is a time to talk.

I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

Blade-end up and five feet tall,

And plod: I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit… Robert Frost

Entry Note To Self...

The Morning Bloom

By nature, I am an early riser each day. To me, there is something special to see the awaking of a new day. The feel as everything comes to life with the rising of the sun. The smell of moisture and the distant sounds as they travel great distances. Which bird will sing the first song?

To take a walk in the still of early morning, made cool by an Autumn breeze from the East. She opens wide her silent arms and once again I'm welcomed in. To walk with her and talk in sighs and whispers. To muse and ponder her sky. To walk with sweet ghost of people passed, and visit places unseen. Dear friends and thoughts they bring, all keep me company in the breeze.

And when I've wandered just far enough, I'll turn my mind toward home, turn my collar up against the wind and bid farewell to my silent walk within the morning bloom...ah, is that the waxing moon I see in the western sky? ...Doc

From The Far Side Of The Glass

From The Far Side Of The Glass

Thought of the evening: It seems to me that the highest form of ego development in the 21st century involves the capacity to gain intrinsic enjoyment for a beautiful moment without the need to exhibit it on social media. No longer being able to gain pleasure in reality, and only gaining pleasure through the funnel of the likes of others, appears to be the regression of the ego of our times. Maybe a new normal?

Think About It...critics

“I’m feeling rather cynical this morning.”

Strasser was the art critic for a small public radio station in upstate New York. He always arrived at the gallery early to avoid the annoying pretentious crowds that he felt always came to these openings. He looked at the white on white that was the interior of the gallery and wondered if perhaps there was something he was not getting. Was it art? While standing there contemplating the work, it hit him. My god, he thought, it is the nature of unlimited possibilities, the unwritten future, the blank slate of a newborn baby. It is genius. Sadly, Phillip Strasser had misread the invitation and arrived the day before the art was installed. He was after all the very same critic who once mistakenly took a power failure for a performance piece on the darkness of the human soul.