IMMEASURABLE DEBRIS

The world is a strange and increasingly interconnected place.

There were quite a few articles circulating last month speculating on the nature and size of the debris field currently making it's way from Japan over to the western shores of North America in the wake of the cruel earthquake and tsunami of March 2011.

Floating shoes, cars, furniture and other assorted representations of an ordered world turned upside down will soon become visible reminders of our own precarious social contract in North America.

It fascinates me that with all our technological prowess we can't accurately track the size and scope of this ever changing mass of debris, and this of course increases our anxiety. We live in a world where we expect precision and anything that falls short of this is problematic.

This is a fitting metaphor for our age. There is at times a sense that we will eventually be impacted by something that happens "over there", though we can't quite pin point this faceless source of dread that is drifting just beyond the horizon.

I would imagine that even after the majority of debris arrives here there will be items washing up for years, or perhaps decades later. I hope that anyone who finds something on the shore does something meaningful with it and pays homage, not only to lives lost, but to our increasingly small and interconnected world.

I think of the debris like a bridge, like the frozen waters of the last ice age that brought continents together. This may force us to throw out our old maps and reconsider where we all stand.

THE ILL MANNERED THIRD DAY

The First Day of the new year is an enigma, a "new beginning" of sorts with all the wonder and awe associated with something novel. He is like a perky younger cousin who sees infinite possibility in everything. He is little annoying at times, but his enthusiam is also endearing and a tad infectious.

The Second Day is a different character of course and is all about getting down to business. Possessed with a steely reserve, Day 2 wants to operationalize all the lofty idealism of the previous day before the calendar gets impossibly full. A useful sort of person to have around.

The Third Day is that evil kind of bastard that will surreptitiously pour salt into the sugar dispenser and ruin your coffee. He wakes you up way too early with all the graceless belligerence of a drill sergeant on a cold damp morning.

He is the smug know-it-all who is far too eager to say "I told you so". The Third Day likes to quote statistics and freely gives unsolicited advice around how the world really works and somehow thinks that labelling oneself as a realist is a positive attribute.

Not a big fan of Day 3, though I will grudgingly acknowledge that it serves a purpose.

How is Day 3 treating you?

THE IMPENETRABLE SEA

"The sea which lies before me as I write glows rather than sparkles in the bland May sunshine. With the tide turning, it leans quietly against the land, almost unflecked by ripples or by foam... we are in the north, and the bright sunshine cannot penetrate the sea" Iris Murdoch - "The Sea, The Sea"

Last weekend I was drawn to the ocean, and my experience is reflected well in these opening lines penned by Iris Murdoch. It had an immediate visceral impact on me as it often does and I was abundantly aware how blessed I am to be living near the sea and to have the privilege of this being a place of solace.

My endless fretting about almost everything is often immediately placated by the natural rhythms of the sea as it unfolds before me. It's as if the movement of the tides match the rhythm of my breathing, creating a sort of sensory integration where breath and sea are one in the same.

I find Murdoch's words resonating, not just because Vancouver has been exceptionally dim and grey these last few months, but by the wonderful notion of the sea being "impenetrable" in some places. This impenetrable sea is unsettling at times, as one's own smallness in the scheme of things becomes apparent, swallowed in the vast undefined mass of the eternally shifting water.

It also bring me comfort though, and it is liberating to have my ego, and sense of self swallowed up for even a moment by something that is so impenetrable, unknowable, yet also familiar. The crashing rhythm of waves and ocean currents is an eternal song, my participation is welcomed though completely unnecessary for it's continuation.

Strangely reassuring for me are these thoughts that drift for a moment over, though never through, the impenetrable water.

(The photo was taken last weekend on a greyish day by the ocean at Ambleside Beach, West Vancouver)

THE SOUND OF SLACKING

Right now all is calm. Everyone in my house is either plugged into some sort of electronic device or engaged in reading. As a family we decided to take the radical step this afternoon and do "nothing".

Of course "nothing" is a fairly subjective and nebulous construct, and in the common vernacular it usually implies not being "productive". This leads me to wonder of course what is this obsession we have with being productive? How does one establish the barometer for gaging this and what is the measurable criteria that ultimately decides this?

My argument is that being unproductive is actually one of the most productive things you can possibly do; ipso facto the two constructs often cancel each other out. On this basis, if one is experiencing any angst around being unproductive it would be wise to consider the very sensible advice that is written on the cover of the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy; "DON'T PANIC"

My unproductive slacking thus far as included;

1. Listening to the new Fleet Foxes album
2. Tweeting briefly about the much maligned BC sales tax (HST)
3. Downloading and listening to a few free Kristin Hersh tracks off of Last FM
4. Setting up some viable slacking options for my kids
5. Writing this.

Of course there will be some intermittent interruptions of my slacking today as I fulfill my role as a parent, but I will remain proud in the knowledge that being blissfully unproductive was the central, and perhaps most productive, focus of the day.

What glorious and unproductive pursuits have you engaged in today?

The above photo was taken on BC's (often ironically titled) Sunshine Coast in May 2010 - a great place to wander about in a unproductive fashion

AIMING FOR AIMLESSNESS

My Summer (which didn't include blogging) seems to have come to a close. This is not a lament, as I am looking forward to the sights and smells of Autumn and the familiar routines that bring a sense of rhythm to everyday life.

The signs are already here; the nights in Vancouver are getting cooler and I have seen evidence of a slight golden hue on some of the trees, and of course the ubiquitous miniature red monkeys have returned to their ancestral nesting branches outside my back door as they always do this time of year;
I went for a delightful evening walk a few nights ago at sunset and listened to a classic Elliott Smith album on my iPod while watching the sunset over Ambleside Beach. The crisp air filled my lungs with that sense of wonder and anticipation that I often experience this time of year. I get quite introspective as the season changes and I often find myself walking aimlessly, allowing my mind to wander in various fanciful directions.

It is a time when I feel most human and alive, and feel more inspired to enjoy the abundance of life as it unfolds around me, free occasionally not to worry much about accomplishing anything that is "productive". Sometimes it is just good to breathe in deeply and scan the horizon for something magical, as an act of surrender of sorts towards the divine . I am looking forward to more of this.

(looking south-east towards Stanley Park and downtown from the North Shore - courtesy of the West Van seawall, one of the best places in the universe to wander aimlessly)

BEING THANKFUL FOR SPAM

I am well aware that I have been neglecting personal writing and engagement with others in the blogosphere, as evidenced in the fact that Asian spam briefly appeared to be outweighing legitimate commentary throughout my increasingly scarce postings.

I can view this as a wake-up call, and perhaps it is way for the universe to let me know how I may need to revisit a medium that in recent years has been mostly energizing, has provided me a great creative outlet and has brought some very cool people into my life.

Perhaps I need to thank the Asian spammers for providing unintended inspiration; no I won't visit your site or try your "super fun happy product" but I do now feel compelled to counter this commercial intrusion through some good old fashioned self-expression and dialogue with others in this vast and seemingly endless digital universe.

Of course it makes me think of how language is a fickle and evolving entity, as evidence in the reality that if I uttered the phrase "Asian spam" 15 years ago you would have probably envisioned something like this;

It's a brave new world indeed, blink for a few seconds and something previously unimaginable is now normative. It is quite breathtaking and a tad overwhelming at times, though I still contend that it is worthwhile to participate in some form that is congruent with who I am.

So, I guess I need to thank a few anonymous spammers for this pleasant reminder. Who knows, I may even visit your site and leave a comment asking you to visit my "dynamic interesting mind-blowing blog experience".

LITTLE PIECES

An old friend reminded me recently that during high school (I dread to mention how long ago this was) I gave her a copy of the "Premier Book of Major Poets" complete with an inscription and date. She described the book as being "discoloured and worn-out", nestled among a collection of other poetry books in her collection.

This got me thinking of course about those tiny fragments of ourselves that are given to others and reflect a significant point of connection frozen in time, a tangible representation of moments where among friends the sharing of ideas and art opens doors to a bigger world.

In this case the poetry book existed outside of conscious memory for quite some time. I have been trying to reconstruct the story behind the book and what inspired this, but I am all too aware that my memory can be a capricious dictator at times, operating under terms outside of my own control or influence.

Perhaps it is an egocentric exercise, but it makes me wonder what other tiny pieces of me are floating around out there. I know that in my possession there remain a few treasures from people who have been significant in my life, including a few mixed tapes and inscribed books that have endured numerous moves in the ensuing years. These are gems that I take out from time to time, unearthed in a ritual of remembering.

I really appreciated my friend reminding me about this book that I gave her, and it made me think of just how unaware I am at times of the trail, or "essence" that it is possible to leave behind in even the slightest of encounter with another human being. I can at times fall into the trap of discounting the past and not making necessary connections to those moments that have enabled me to come to where I am today.

Of course there aren't always tangible representations like books or mixed tapes to serve as a memory queue. Occasionally we can be blessed with a persistent or stubborn memory that takes hold and refuses to let go, a fragment of time that connects you to another person and to a moment of friendship. These memories can be just as dog eared and worn just like an old book, and be all the more precious for it.

RING A BELL AND I'LL SALIVATE

Early 21st century life seems at times like an ongoing Pavlovian enterprise;

Blinking red light = time to check my voice mail
Inbox with bold type = must open my e-mail
Instant messenger pop up = someone needs a response asap
Morning greeting at work = an exchange of pleasantries is required
Cell phone beeping = voice mail waiting

It feels at times like my day is compromised of one conditioned response after another, creating a continuous and self sustaining feedback loop; I do these things simply because I always do them. This makes it easy to float through a portion of the day in autopilot.

I would venture to guess that this is an increasing phenomena for many of us. Of course a conditioned response is valuable and necessary at times, though when it becomes the norm it makes me feel like some disembodied ghost, only playing the part of a fully functional and sentient being. So how does one break out of this cycle then?

Small subversive acts work for me; turn the ringer off for an hour, cover up the blinking light with a post-it note, choose a different response, pick certain times of day where I choose to open e-mail.

I often add music into my day to help transform it. There is something incompatible, yet transformational about listening to the yearning and reflective tone of Sun Kil Moon or the dream pop of Beach House on my iPod while I complete mundane tasks like responding to an e-mail . The soundscapes infuse a layer of beauty into my day, stimulating parts of my brain that make me more creative and less likely to float around in autopilot.

For a while I was worried that I was becoming some sort of Cylon sleeper agent, waiting for the next signal or command to trigger some internally programmed response. Thankfully, I am not a diabolical walking toaster, and perhaps writing this is down part of what helps prevent this for me.

So as the red light blinks on the periphery of my vision I will blissfully ignore it’s demand for a response, for the time being at least.

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

I awoke this morning with a vivid dream still playing itself out in my mind. I experienced that brief interval that occurs when you first wake up and are overcome with some tenacious dream residue so powerful that it sticks to your brain for a few extra seconds. It is a wonderful place, a space between two worlds joined momentarily.

For a few seconds I lamented a profound personal loss, only to experience the dawning awareness that it was all a dream and that everything was in it's rightful order. The elation that follows this awareness is itself intoxicating. It is a temporary high, where the emotional content of the dream persists in tandem with the competing facts of an emerging consciousness. A little magic to start the day.

Recently, an old friend told me about a dream where she and I were at our high school prom together, and she was wearing a very ugly dress. She also noted that despite this being a high school dream we were both at our present age, among a group of people who were not all congruent with that particular setting.

This is something I have experienced as well, and whenever my dreams occur in familiar childhood or adolescent landscapes I am almost always my present age. I wonder if there is something in our psychological makeup that makes it hard to dream as if we were children again, as if our minds are filled with too much experience and input to allow us to go back so easily?

I also appreciated that my friend felt compelled to tell me about this dream, and it reinforces my belief that (with a few exceptions perhaps) it is always good form to tell people when they have permeated your dream landscape. I figure if someone has made it so deeply into my subconscious there must be something significant there, regardless of how subtle it may be.

I think if we told others when they inhabit our dreams some fascinating patterns might emerge over time, and perhaps we would see more of that elusive web of connectedness between ourselves and even those we thought were only bit players in our lives. Perhaps a few walls might come down in the process.

SO THIS IS THE NEW YEAR...

Like many of my fellow human beings, I possess this irrational tendency to project a tempered sense of hope in response to the emergence of a new year. I often awake the first morning of the year with a brief experience of tabula rasa, of starting fresh and thinking the whole world should follow suit as well.

It doesn't take long of course before I catch the next evening news cast and experience the deflating "same shit, different year" perspective in response to some atrocity or another. I often try to avoid the news for a few days following a new year, as such ignorance is indeed bliss, at least for a while.

Of course to think that we can somehow start fresh, disconnected from our own personal nature or human history because of some arbitrary form of time measurement is completely strange and nonsensical on many levels.

I know that on a collective and individual basis, we remain who we are, rooted in the mire of the human condition, which is of course rife with suffering and a stunning lack of imagination at times. The turning of one day, month, year, or decade can't divorce us from this reality.

However misplaced it might be, there is something defiantly beautiful in the act of waking up and thinking for a moment that something, however small, could be different in the coming year. Perhaps it is like some gambler's fallacy deeply rooted in our psyche, allowing us to believe that the odds will eventually work in our favour. Regardless, it is a powerful and necessary force.

In many ways, an unfilled calendar page is a sacred symbol, one that propels us forward with great hope. There is something magical in that brief pause at the start of a new year, before the pages are filled or the script is fully written. We finally untether our imagination and allow it to take flight for a while. The possibilities are intoxicating.

A good way to start any day, really.

(flickr link for photo here)

FLYING CARS & RELENTLESS RAIN

Other than a brief priod of respite today, there have been relentless torrents of rain day after day on the aptly named "Wet Coast" where I live. Much to the dismay of my umbrella, the sideways blowing rain has subverted it's one and only purpose in life, thus giving it some serious self-esteem issues to contend with.

Of course the ubiquitous November darkness, which can drive one to despair on a good day, has been given that extra shot of soul sapping and depression inducing weariness courtesy of endless waves of pounding wind and precipitation . It would be a good call to stay away from those Joy Division records this month.

I went grocery shopping the other day and had to tread water through large parking lot lakes while trying to keep a 4kg bag of flour dry, which is no small accomplishment. Have you ever tried to walk through a two foot deep puddle balancing groceries in one hand and a skin scorching latte in the other? Life here is harsh my friends.

Seeing as we are now well into the 21st century my biggest complaint is that we should really have all had flying cars by this time, or at the very least portable jet packs that we could use to fly above the soggy madness below. I could easily strap one of these over my gore-tex coat and be on my merry way out of the rain.

In the movie Blade Runner (which takes place in the year 2019) there is also lots of rain, and of course, flying cars everywhere for convenience. Sure, there are psychotic killer androids in the midst of an existential crisis on the loose, but the flying cars more than make up for this.

Of course the inhospitable weather has brought to surface my latent slacker tendencies, as what else does one want to do while the weather outside is so frightful but sit by the fire with some hot chai, a good book, or some mindless zombie movies to wile away the evening. A perfectly justifiable act under the circumstances.

On second thought, let it pour. Flying cars and rain be damned .... let the slacking begin!

GETTING TO KNOW MY BLOG AGAIN

Like a lover scorned, my blog is completely unimpressed with my recent neglectful behavior.

I used to be so attentive to it's needs, so filled with wonderful flowery language and playful imagery to satisfy it's insatiable appetite for an endless stream of content.

Alas, now our relationship is a mere shadow of it's former glory. Where once the Great Muse bestowed me with many inspired offerings, there is now only dust, mere fragments of a once great promise.

I have tried to make amends, though the whole "it's not you, it's me" line did not go over very well with my blog. I have also tried to coast on my charm, though this is wearing thin as well. The only form of appeasement is through the provision of content.

So then, here I start again... digital signals form words as I type, giving shape to the random thoughts and flights of fancy that consume my mind.

My dear blog, I hope you are happy.....

AUTUMN HAS ARRIVED, SHALL I MUSE?

It has been a stunningly beautiful week here on the left coast; bright sunshine, warm days, cool nights, and the leaves on the trees beginning to displaying a subtle orange-yellow hue.

I go for meandering walks during my lunch hour to take it all in, listening to Leonard Cohen covers and Nick Drake on my iPod to enhance the experience. I am a hopeless case.

There is something inherently familiar and reassuring about the changing of the seasons, and autumn in particular. I feel tethered to rhythms in nature that have persisted for years beyond measure. It puts me in my rightful place, and I am briefly aware of being small part of an intricate cycle that chugs along regardless of how I feel about it or whether I choose to take notice.

The familiar sensations of this season register on a very primal and subconscious level for me, and it awakens something in me where I am briefly more attuned to a larger world. It suddenly becomes more urgent to attend to my surroundings, especially the fleeting sunshine that with each passing day permeates from a lower position in the sky.

The other day I was overwhelmed by the scent of decaying blackberries from the ubiquitous bushes that line a pond nearby; it was such a powerful sensation that it seemed possible not to only smell it, but to hear and witness first-hand the abundant nutrients returning back to the soil. The berries have such a fleeting moment, months of gradual budding, flowering and a brief period of ripeness, followed by inevitable decay.

This perhaps is what makes this time of year so appealing, for all the beauty, smells and colour are really the bi-product of decay, the last gasp of life leading to a state of dormancy. New life will follow soon enough in the months to come, though in that moment of decline there is a profound gift of sublime beauty given to those willing to take notice.

Birth and rebirth in a short span of time. Cycles of life that are integral to who we are as humans, a reminder of the radiance that is life itself and the precious gift that it is.

Breathe it in deeply friends.

MY MACHINERY

I am amazed by the fact that when I am feeling lethargic, or if I am bordering on despair, my first instinct is to head internally and to examine what form of dark matter is brewing in my psyche.

In reality it is often not so complex, and my mood may be more of a bi-product of certain physical needs requiring attention. The over thinking and soul searching is often no match for the simple remedy of fueling my biological machinery with the appropriate elements;

vitamin d from warm sunshine
a breeze caressing my brow
endorphins kicking in as I increase my pace during a walk
music elevating my mood
visual stimuli that fires up dormant neural pathways

Perhaps I commit the crime of attributing complexity to a situation where it isn't required; Is it a crisis of character or am I so damn moody because I haven't had a good boost of endorphins lately?

I was thinking of this today as I took a brisk walk and lost myself in some blissful songs. I kicked my physical machinery into gear and was able to gradually rise above the dark thoughts that had consumed me earlier.

So simple really, let the machine spin in new directions and see what can happen.

MY EXPERIENCE OF TIME TRAVEL

One way to experience time travel is to simply return to a place that you haven't been to in a long while. I have had this experience coming back to Southern Ontario and Toronto this week, a place I used to live and grew up in until about 12 years ago.

Places or people get stuck in your mind they way they were the last time you saw them, whether it be 2 years or 12 years since your last sighting, and one has to quickly reconcile the newer version with the one that was embedded in your mind for quite some time.

Sometimes the experience of time travel occurs in obvious ways. For me it was the millions of condo towers that exist near the water front and rail lines in downtown Toronto that weren't there during my time. While for most people these buildings appeared gradually, for me they were there in an instant.

In the span of a few seconds your mind has to reconcile the version of a place embedded in your memory with the newer version unfolding before you. At that precise moment when your long established mental image of a place is confronted with the newer version you experience time travel, as if the two version evolved in a second and you are transported to a new reality.

Somethings remain constant though, especially on a deeper sensory level. For me the sound of the subway, the way the air moves with each passing train down the tunnel instantly brought me back to another time. There were also certain indescribable smells that were familiar to me. You certainly can't go back in time, but there are moments that provide a sense of what remains constant.

Of course the people I love change as well over time, though there are many aspects of them that remain reassuringly constant. This is of course more suited for another posting, as I am too much embedded in the moment to write further. More on time travel to come......

COME OVER TO THE WIDOW....

The other morning I deviated from my usual robotic state of commuting and dropped into one of the fine peddlers of high quality java near my home . My decision was immediately reinforced by the sounds of "So Long Marianne" by Leonard Cohen playing in the background as I waited for my dark steamy brew.

Although it doesn't happen as often now, there are still moments where certain songs played in public can transform the immediate environment into a sacred space. This is especially true of certain songs that are so well studied, absorbed and inextricably embedded in my psyche that I forget sometimes they are part of a larger world, outside of my own private universe.

"So long, Marianne It's time that we began to laugh and cry, and cry and laugh about it all again"

The familiar chorus filled the room with a refrain that beckons like the siren's call daring you to no longer stay the course, despite impending peril. It demands the need to step back and examine the elusiveness of fleeting human connection or the unanswered call of the heart's deepest longings.

Whatever it says, it fills empty spaces with life. It reminds me to look beyond my own interior landscape and remember to make connections to a larger world that I often neglect in the midst of my day to day routine.

A well placed song can do this sort of thing.....

SYNCHRONICITY

On my ride to work the other morning I decided to rediscover a few CDs from my long neglected CD binder, which is the resting place of many albums that have been denied shelf space in my home (a rare commodity). My choice that morning was "This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours" by The Manic Street Preachers, a late 90's album that I used to listen to a fair bit.

Of course in the strange and mystical universe that I inhabit something magical happened. At almost the precise moment that I was listening to the album and contemplating how it was now 10 years-old, a truck slowly drove past me that had "10th Anniversary" written on a large logo in gold letters on its side.

This completely rocked my world, as I live for those rare moments of synchronicity where the seeming randomness of life is infused with connection to larger forces and a sense of meaning and purpose. Sure, it is probably just a coincidence, though I personally find it comforting to take careful note when this sort of thing happens.

As I was writing this blog entry and looking at what (the ever reliable) Wikipedia had to say about the Jungian concept of Synchronicity, I noticed that writer Arthur Koestler's "The Roots of Coincidence" was referenced at the end of the entry. This was very strange indeed, as earlier in the week I had a vivid dream where the Koestler novel "Darkness At Noon" was featured prominently.

The dream about Koestler's novel was still in my mind throughout the morning, to the point that I felt compelled to read up on him, as I hadn't read his book or thought about it for quite some time (for well over 10 years I might add!). Needless to say, I now feel compelled to read Koestler again in the hope of digging a little deeper behind my recent experience.

So there it is, strange connections in the midst of an ordinary week - a dream about Arthur Koestler - a Manic Street Preachers album - a 10th anniversary sign on a truck - and further references to Koestler coming to my attention. What is the universe trying to tell me?

O LAPTOP, WHERE ART THOU?

My laptop was in the repair shop for eight long days, and despite the initial bought of separation anxiety things turned out remarkably well for both of us. For my laptop it was an opportunity to meet some new friends, get a little tune up and gain some perspective on life.

As for me, in addition to reinforcing my belief that absence does make the heart grow fonder, I had fun in the (mostly) non-digital realm soaking up the beautiful spring weather, gardening and driving my people mover to work so I could earn enough money to keep that same people mover on the road and continue to drive it to work…..ad infinitum.

Here is a (non-exhaustive) list of some of a few other things I did during my little laptop holiday;

Walking/Hiking

Breathing (a regular activity)
Cleaning up after my busy tribe of Munchkins
Catching up with my favourite music magazines
Ongoing denial of the impending tax filing deadline
Reading a great book - "The Gargoyle" by Andrew Davidson
Supervising bouncy castle mayhem for the Munchkins
Dreaming
Scheming
Fretting over which of my fav shows will likely be cancelled (RIP "Chuck")

A good time really, and the only difference now that my kindly little laptop has returned from its spa holiday is that I will continue to do all of the above, albeit I will be able to blog about afterwards, sort of like I am now.

CAUTIONARY TALES FOR A NEW CENTURY

Lately two recent stories regarding multiple births have been circulating in the mainstream media. It seems there is a collective appetite to bask in the murky glow where science and childbirth intersect, illustrated dramatically in the recent accounts of a mother of 6 children giving birth to octuplets and a 60 year-old woman in Calgary giving birth to twins, both through the magic of in vitro fertilization.

In addition to inspiring the shock tinged sound bites from the inevitable pundits in the media, I think on another level these stories function as sort of post-modern cautionary tales that captivate our imaginations in the early 21st century.

They reflect both our sense of awe and dread towards science. We marvel at the wonders of our accomplishments and yet we are held equally spellbound by the freakish and unimagined consequences of scientific experimentation, thus providing great material of our increasingly macabre imaginations.

These are the new cautionary tales that are gradually embedding themselves in our collective psyche, where we are left aghast when the expression of individual rights and desires are manifested in previously unimagined ways. These stories remind us that we are wandering in new directions, unable to heed the reliable signposts that were once able to guide us.

It makes me think of those ghastly Victorian-era cautionary tale for children where a terrible fate awaits those foolish enough to ignore conventional morality. In these tales impetuous children who refuse to take heed of the wisdom of their elders end up falling through the ice or being eaten by wild animals, though now the consequence are more dramatic and far reaching.

Will we tell our children tales of cloned sheep run amok or octuplets crying all night and driving their parents to the brink, all because science was blindly embraced? Will we warn them sternly of what occurs when the desire to achieve one's own end, regardless of the means, creates some horrible outcome that one is doomed to endure?

Personally, I'll stick with the classics, like the Beatrix Potter tale of the "Fierce Bad Rabbit" who gets his tale shot off by a hunter after being greedy, or the "Dreadful Tale of Pauline & The Matches", which ends with rather obvious consequences;

Of course there is also the tale of "Little Suck-A-Thumb" who looses his offending digits courtesy a mad scissor wielding tailor after failing to heed the warnings of his mother;

Perhaps I'll throw the "cautionary to the wind" and stick to some stories geared towards inspiring wonder in my children, rather than dread. They will see enough of the bizarre in this brave new world soon enough, and perhaps their moral compass can be shaped through other means other than fear!

Still though, aren't these new tales grand?

LIKE A PHOENIX FROM THE FLAMES....

I arise from my glorious winter slumber, emerging anew and reborn, refreshed and ready to fly boldly into the horizon of this strange new world...

In the nearly two months since my last post I have been hibernating, not literally of course (there are bills to pay), but I have abandoned the neon glow of my computer screen at night and have replaced it with some cocooning in bed accompanied by some really good fiction (err, OK I do stay up late one night a week with the PS3 killing zombies).

I needed to take a break from writing in order to reflect, rest and step back a bit from my often busy mind. At times I believe I suffer from a form of mental paralysis resulting from too many ideas competing for air time at the same time. I am a bit of an idea machine; I am your dream companion for a creative brainstorming session, though please don't even think about asking me for any concrete follow through once the ideas are narrowed down and further implementation is required.

I like the discipline of taking time to write everyday, as it releases some of the internal pressure in my mind when I allow a few half-baked ideas to be released on a daily basis. This is why I am motivated to blog again, not because I think the world is waiting with bated breath for my next post, but for my own sake in order to find time to formulate my thoughts, engage in a little creative play and share my ideas with a few other fine folks

I am currently contemplating doing a series of musical themed posts in order to explore further something I love, and to provide some more disciplined focus for my writing. I may invite some of you to participate in some good old fashioned collaboration as well. You have been warned!

PS: Thanks to those of you who continued to leave comments and drop by while I took a break.