Saturday, October 24, 2009

When they breath into chilling winds their last leaves of the season, skeletons of once full canaopies are revealed, welcoming the last day of October, the celebration of the dead.

All around, God’s confetti covers the ground, the Earth, the paths, walkways, streets, and the cross roads of life.

How jarring it is to realize that others are not entranced by the sounds, the colors, and the smells of Fall; that fibrous damp scent, of dried out rotting foliage; the sensation of cold air ripping across the cheek; the delight of more colors than any painter could possibly imagine – everywhere hanging, and falling like giant pieces of rain as wind rocks the droplets from the rain-bowed clouds hanging just above our heads.

All too soon there will only be the sleeping wood of sentinels, with scrappy bony fingers and tentacles scraping long gray icy, snowy skies. But for now, the colors of heaven abound. And everything ceases, as these sensations invigorate the spirits sensitive enough to bear them witness.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Mirrors:

Surfaces so smooth,
- almost all light bounces back -
showing who we appear to others as.

Faces so smooth,
- emotions bouncing back -
Showing who we appear to others as.

When smiles greet us, we can feel uplifted about ourselves.
When frowns welcome us, we can reflect about ourselves,
The faces are mirrors.

What can we see about ourselves in others’ ?

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Paparazzo

Confession of your number one Paparazzo:

In the pack of other men with cameras, following, filming, running and dashing to where they think you may be next, I stand without equal. I am not here to snap and sell a picture of you. In fact, my camera doesn’t even have film. I must admit, that I do not even know how to use this camera, nothing but the flash even works – I bought it at a discount off the internet.

Ultimately, I simply carry the camera so that I have an excuse to be where you are. You see, it just so happens that every time I figure out and go to where you are, these other men with cameras always seem to be there too. I don’t understand them, they don’t love you the way I do. They follow you to sell you - I just follow you so that I can see you. So I can be near you. So that that I can see you with my own eyes. In my heart of hearts I pray deeply and sincerely that God find it in his heart to allow you to talk to me one day. Touch me. Kiss me?

Of course, I go to every public performance that I possibly can, if only to hear your voice and see your skin with my own ears and eyes. To perhaps smell some part of your perfume, or to touch any place your body has been, the floor, the hand rail, a bench, the seat - Anything.

The flashing lights of paparazzi scare me as much as they must you. Really, I am always afraid that someone will figure me out. I haven’t quite figured out how act like I am a real photographer. Sometimes I even forget to activate the flash, and I just hold my camera as my heart jumps out of my chest and towards you. Their cameras are like piranha or barracuda ripping at your flash, it hurts me that you even think I am one of them.

Between their many flashes, I can see your every movement; the flashes are white like lightning-strobelights that slow your movements down into quickly fading eternities. I just wish we could have a few moments to speak, to talk, to touch.

I am not a paparazzo, just your greatest admirer.