Tempests Follow

  I think it's kind of funny that even online I see and use my introverted tendencies. Go out there amongst the big bad world, then let my sensitivities chase me back into my hole, my home.   Well this is it, the place where the shadow of the projectionist shows on the moving pictures of life. That is this curse, to see the edges of the grains and to play with their substances. I also have noticed in my last trip out there that all my words put together sound just the same. People are saying great things about my writing and that excites and scares the hell out of me. Whoa? Hold on, this mental mediation that happens is called writing? I thought it was just my minds speaking amongst themselves? They want more of it? Now who's nuts, me or them? Because something isn't right with this picture. Don't they know who I am?   I wrote a piece on Yabberz last week. In it I typed the words "I am a writer" to begin a paragraph. It was 4:30 am and I had been up for over

 There is a vividness and color, a pace and a graininess to those pictures from my past. The comforting roll of an 8mm film, and the Wagoneer station wagon. A.M. radio over a mono speaker, and the sound of Paul Harvey wishing us all a Good Day. The look of things completely different, and I realize now it was largely because I was always looking up at things, at people.   The years pile up and the pictures of life include the sounds and words and emotions of life. The first painting you fell in love with, or rock band you made yourself a fan of. It may have been inspired by someone else, or your first real reach at individuality. The pictures get more vivid, their colors a little sharper, and more numerous. They are not always filled with "The Wonder Years" perfection, or the "Little House on the Prairie" wholesomeness. There are times that are grand and joyful sure, but there are times of monsters and demons that many still carry to this day.  Paint a picture, t