These Days


These days are muddy. I put one foot slowly in front of the other. I only know that I’ve moved forward by looking backward at the tracks I’ve somehow left behind. Behind me I also see the tracks of others that have stopped somewhere along the way. Some tracks faded with age and distance. Some tracks fresh. So fresh, I can almost imagine that they will somehow continue and rejoin mine.

These days are muddy. I’m not complaining. It’s the tracks in the mud that capture memories. It’s the tracks in the mud that remind me that I’m still carrying on. And I am. I’m still carrying on.


Be well,

Monty


Quiet


He’s been quiet lately. The voice in my head. The voice that is, quite frankly, a bit nuts. Often compelling me toward darkness. Vacillating between escape strategies – sometimes into deep sadness. Other times into manic self-sabotaging fantasies. And, more often than not, he’s also been my muse.

He’s been quite lately. And so have I. Quite in a good way. Calm. At peace. But also quiet in a discomforting way. Directionless. And, to be honest, uninspired. I feel conflicted. Should I embrace the silence and the peace it brings me in my daily life? Or should I stir up the pot a bit? Disrupt the mundane? Poke the devil in the eye and see what happens?

Intellectually, I understand this is a false choice. That my creativity doesn’t have to be at the expense of my peace-of-mind. That I may just need to evolve my approach. Open my mind to new sources of inspiration. And that this, perhaps, might even lead to new passions and greater creativity.

But emotionally, I’m mourning this loss. I’m missing the creative fluidity. Being “in the zone” and emerging surprised by the outcome. It’s been a thrilling ride.

I’m not conceding. After all, I’m writing this piece. A bit haltingly, yes, but I’m carrying on. Yes, I’m carrying on.


Be well,

Monty


Today


Today’s a gorgeous weather day. Cool with a light breeze. Bright and sunny aside from my spot in the shade of the tree above me. At this point in the afternoon the sun has already made good progress toward the horizon, but there is still enough light and warmth to sit outside comfortably.

I can feel the lightness of this day. What a blessing. I’ve found my center of gravity again after weeks of ambivalence. Before the ambivalence I was spiraling in manic and self-sabotaging thoughts so the numbness was welcome. But now it’s nice to feel something genuine. Yes, this is nice.

Afternoon Tea

I don’t have much more to share today. My poetic muse is still on holiday it seems. That’s ok, I’m sure it will be back. Until then…

Be well,

Monty


Shine On


Shine on, shine on, shine on me
Shine your light on me
Light me up, cast away my doubts
Lift me out of these shadows
I’m ready, I’m ready, please shine your light on me.


Be well,

Monty


Here I Go Again


Here I go again. Interrupting this negative space with some generic typeface. No particular intentions. Just wanna release built-up tensions. It’s coming out in drips and drabs. The faulting pace of a distracted hare destined to lose the race. That’s ok. I’ve no place I need to go. Nowhere I have to be. Let the tortoise have her day. We’ll see, but I’m pretty sure I’m not even going that way.

At this point I’ve written and deleted more lines then those that remain. There I go deleting another one again. I’ve still not figured out what I want to say. I guess it’s just that kind of day.


Be well,

Monty


A Test of the Heart


I’m wearing a Holter heart monitor today and I can’t help but wonder if it can see past the irregular beats and witness how wholly broken I am. My arteries, hardened by callousness, carry blood but little warmth. For to feel warmth I must allow myself to feel. To expose myself to shame with only unrighteous anger in my defense.

Will the charts reveal my secrets? Will all my failings be scrawled across the page for my doctor to analyze? Will he be somber when he delivers the news that I’m incurable? Or will he bend his knee and pray for me?


Be well,

Monty


An Observation and a Query


A fly walks by.
S t r e t c h i n g
Its legs, I guess?


Be well,

Monty


A Gentle Drizzle Sets the Scene


A gentle drizzle sets the scene;
The last of the season’s persimmons hang-on,
Half-concealed behind leaves shimmering under
A quiet concert of pitter-patter percussion.

In quick succession a jack-hammer jacks,
A jet’s engine whines,
And wheels whirl along the moist road beyond the wall
Adding their own interpretation to the unwritten music.

This must be the chorus as there they go again
The jack, the whine, and the whirl
Until a tightly cadenced thwack-thwack-thwack
Interrupts as a train speeds by.

A tiny red spider crawls across my keyboard.
My fingers dance around it as I tap-tap-tap
My own contribution to the score,
Until again the jack, whine, and whirl take over.

Pitter-patter jack whine and whirl, tap-tap-tap.
Pitter-patter jack whine and whirl, tappity-tap-tap.
An unexpectedly perfect lullaby as I settle down to nap.


Be well,

Monty


The Birds


The birds are watching me from the wire above.
What are they thinking? Do they see my sadness?
Or are they too busy balancing in the breeze?

The birds have moved on. Perhaps to a more sturdy perch.
Or maybe just down the wire for a better outlook —
Bored by my melancholy.

Do the birds even care what we do down here? Are they aware of our envy? To fly far away at a whim? To leave the ground behind and discover what’s beyond the horizon?

I’m precariously balancing upon a wire. Electricity coursing through. The ground is calling for me to complete the circuit. The sky is calling for me to fly.

Tell me birds…shall I try?


Be well,

Monty


Mired in Mud


Mired in mud.
I don’t like this feeling, but I appreciate the alliteration.
Mired in mud, mud, mud.
Stuck in repetition.
Mired,
So tired —
In mud
Of sins gone stale,
Mud
Stuck thickly to my soles
Mud
Prints circling from my heals to my toes
As I spiral slowly inward into myself till I reach my limit.
So tired.
Mired
In Mud.


Be well,

Monty