I Went Walking

I went walking
under newly-lit street-lamps
suggesting bed time;

past the parked cars and
garbage bins dragged to the curb;
past extinguished porch-lights
that say without saying 'do not disturb.'

I walked through intersections,
under traffic lights reflected off the
vacant pavement below.

The midnight wind my compass tonight,
as I walk in the direction it blows;
by the corners of foundations
where it whistles going past,
as the baggy underarms of my jacket
swell like sails on a mast.

Hidden Gems

Have you ever taken a minute to look at your bookshelf, I mean really look at it? If you’re like me, you wonder how you ever thought you’d have the time to read all of those books. Somewhere during metamorphosis, the feeling changes from a private relaxation technique, to obsession, before arriving at ominous.

I’ve been thinking about a couple of things, and wondered if any of you were as well. As this blog may hint, I love to read, so much so, that I can’t pick a favourite author. It has become the ‘what’s your favourite movie’ question. The answers lie in different time zones it seems. I will tell you they definitely lie in different bookstores. In keeping with this blog’s first post, I must reiterate that, while I don’t HATE bookstores like Chapters, or Coles…they just don’t have what I’m looking for. It seems to me that all shelves are filled with Prize-winners and top-ten lists. Nevermind the books-to-movie, movie-to-book cover books; No Country for Old Men was a great novel first.

Between 1950 and 1956, Jack Kerouac wrote eleven, full-length novels, and I’m willing to bet the average Canadian reader will only find On the Road on (most) bookstore shelves. If you asked a manager why this is, he or she would probably tell you, these titles sell best. Sure they will, everytime Oprah adds a new book to her list, the next day you can’t find one on the shelves of these Top-Ten bins. This is more than a pet-peeve; as I believe it points to a bigger issue. This kind of marketing, limits the public’s consumption of literature. Certainly, it reduces a given author’s entire canon to hiding in the shadows.

Think I’m kidding; I’ve already mentioned Kerouac, what about…Canadian poet Glen Downie, author of Wishbone Dance, Desire Lines, and most recently Loyalty Management. If you look in the Canadian poetry section of any Chapters under D, you won’t find Glen Downie, but Gord Downie and his collection Coke Machine Glow. Don’t get me wrong, I like Gord’s collection, but I can’t help but wonder which came first, the book of poetry or the Juno-winning rock band?

If you wander over to the Drama section, you might find Arthur Miller’s work; at least the Crucible and Death of a Salesman. What about All My Sons, or A View from the Bridge. I’m not saying this happens with every author, I’m merely noting some important omissions, and folks, the list could go on and on.

For this reason, I have become a fan of hunting for those hidden gems. The dank, stale air of a used bookstore, while a potent reciepe for nausua, is the best place to shop for books. One of the benefits of living in Ottawa, is that there are many great used bookstores to hunt in. It was in one of these used bookstores, where I came across an original copy of The Old Man and the Sea. I paid $20 for it, as it turns out, it’s worth about $2000.

This isn’t about dollar value for these old books, it’s about finding a hidden gem. How many of you have found an old book with a personal message from the 60s; or a note from son to father. It lets you know how far the book has come to get to you. Now that, I find interesting.

While I'm Young (promises)

I'll paint pictures with my fingers,
and run them through my hair;
I'll count my chickens before they hatch, and
lose sleep dreaming of tomorrows and tomorrows -
I won't rest to dwell on yesterdays.
I'll run on empty and rejuvenate my body
with toxins concocted for its destruction -
red bull and coca-cola (I'm thinking of you).
I'll walk in my sleep until I crash in road-side
roach motels that charge a quarter for air -
empty the mini bar and head for the next great rave.
I'll speak before I think,
I'll waltz the Devil's dance
before I follow faith's first step;
I'll travel the hard road, so I'll know
to appreciate the ease of those paved smooth;
I'll live my life in poetry,
before I write it down in prose;
I'll change masks and occupations
so they don't change me;
While I'm young I'll live forever,
and I'll run for just as long;
While I"m young I'll have my thoughts
and when I'm old I'll have my scars.
Today we'll walk over the smoldering ambers
of yesterday's fire losing steam;
While I'm young I'll learn to sleep,
and when I'm old I'll learn to dream.

Remember the Novel? How Future Technologies are rewriting the words of the past

After a lifetime spent teaching English literature to Yale University students, literary critic Harold Bloom was taken aback, when in 2003, the National Book Foundation – presiding over the famous National Book Award – named Stephan King the year’s recipient of its National Book Foundation Award. In an article penned for the Los Angeles Times, Bloom sited that , ‘by awarding it to King they recognize nothing but the commercial value of his books, which sell in the millions but do little for humanity than keep the publishing world afloat.’ What Bloom has shrewdly vocalized is the decline in the value of first-rate literature. Names like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, O’Connor, Mailer, Plath and other literary giants have been assigned to the dust of used bookstore shelves.

What he called the ‘dumbing down of American readers’ is but one cell in the virus attacking the tradition of the novel. While the decline in intelligently written novels is nonetheless a disturbing phenomenon, the novel itself has become lost in the milieu of electronic devises that are rapidly threatening the sanctity of the written word. This is happening for two reasons: firstly, technological advances, most notably the internet, have over time, replaced traditional mediums that contain literature, and secondly, the way humans interact with one another is changing from personal to virtual.

Recent advancements in technology are creating physical distance between the novel and the reader. While one could argue that books and films, for instance, have coexisted since the middle of the 20th Century, the popularity of the novel did not erode until technology bridged the gap between the movie theatre, and the living room couch. The technological proliferation occurring at present has broadened our capacities to travel – via car, plane, train, foot and skateboard, to hotel rooms wired with complementary hi-speed – while downloading, watching and burning movies. Amidst this whirlpool of motherboards, I am begged to ask: does anybody remember the novel?

One possible explanation for the evaporating love of the novel is that our vision of the novel has become disconnected from past nostalgias. In other words, the things we read are more and more appearing in the virtual sense, in forms we cannot touch and feel. This impersonal shift has re-established, to a degree, the physical distance between humans and novels. It is worth mentioning the antithesis: readers will always be readers, and therefore loyal to the novel. However, the novel will disappear because it fails to attract new readers, and in failing to expand this base, those left standing under tradition’s umbrella will fade away, leaving this once-sacred love unprotected from the downpour of technological innovation.

Adding to this, the nature of human contact itself is revolutionizing. Older, more traditional forms of contact, such as letter writing and telephone conversations have been reduced to condescending names like ‘snail mail,’ or have been replaced by the stranglehold computers and cellular phones have in dictating ‘instant messages.’ What is left are populations of people corresponding electronically, and not personally. This adds up to reducing material for the novel that would otherwise be available through personal contact.

It is in this shift, from personal to virtual interaction, through the advancement and convenience of technological innovation, where the substance of the novel is not being experienced to the degree it once was. Consider if you like, science fiction: 21st Century innovation and iPods are not creating newer, more exciting forms of science fiction, anymore than they are producing newer, more exciting science fiction novels – the popularity of which may still be considered a cult. What is happening is a renewal of the recluse at the extreme end, and a new population of humans whose sole interaction with the novel is through eBooks, on the other.

So, how does this affect the novel? Personal interaction creates the mouldings in which we place characters. One need not shake hands with everybody they meet; however, simply noticing different personalities becomes a challenge when being Blackberried to the point of dependence, or when listening to an iPod while walking down the street. The more our senses are canalled through technological devises, the less we are to notice the peculiarities taking place around us.

During a recent trip to Japan, a friend and I were making our way through hoards of daily commuters in Tokyo’s Shinjuku district – truly a sight to see – when I took a moment to notice the happenings inside the train car. Everywhere I looked, I saw people – young, old, student, and business professional, even a child under five – staring intently at a cellular phone, a PSP, iPOD, or personal computer. This got me thinking; how many personal relationships would be spawned in this subway car, if only people would look up from their text messages long enough to meet a stranger?

Though we may never know the answer, this troubling addiction has become institutionalized and engrained in the nature of 21st Century communication. No longer is it one-on-one, face to face; it is more like face-to-interface! Created by the Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA), the World Wide Web, since going public in 1993, has grown from an innovative alternative, to life-support system. Commenting on the central role the internet plays, former US President Bill Clinton stated in his recent book, entitled Giving, that when he took office, the internet was home to ten websites. Today, he writes, there are about 50 million websites accessible to the public.

As the effectiveness and viability of the Internet to be used as a smart tool for business networking and communications became more apparent, its transformation process began, ushering in a new collaborative atmosphere to the global conversation; if two minds are better than one, how about 3 billion minds? In many ways, the Internet has facilitated the gathering forces of globalization, enabling conversations to begin in one place and end in another.

In the context of literature, the Internet has proved an effective method for self-publication. Through live journals, weblogs, and MySpace, anybody with a message can create a website, and begin contributing to the global conversation. In many ways they have created an entirely new domain for freelancers and news personal to report on the events taking place around us. What is more, Internet jobs can be conducted from home, and in the era of high energy cost, ditching the car and rush-hour commute may be the hallmark of the 21st Century job.

The idea of mass collaboration has become so popular; it is making its way to print media’s familiar haunt – the daily newspaper. An article entitled, How do you feel about this headline, appearing in The Toronto Star in July 2008, listed a new job posting: Citizen Journalist. This role, explains the article, will be facilitated by ‘a new tool launched by thestar.com that allows users to comment on stories. The goal is to make the news more interactive, more dynamic, more of an open discussion, instead of a static lecture.’

While the Toronto Star has made this collaborative effort a new addition, other publications base their entire being around global collaborative efforts. The best example of this is the photography magazine JPG. Its most recent issue, entitled Human Impact, and On the Go, advertises on the cover that ‘you can submit photos, write articles, and vote at jpgmag.com.’ The contents of the magazine – submitted by members who register for a free account on the internet - cover a breadth of humanity in photographs from across the globe. This type of effort spells out the appeal of mass collaboration: in one publication, there exists a number of different regional images from around the globe. Each contributor occupies a space on the magazine’s main website, which facilitates the high degree of sharing.

To inspire – and doubtless, expand its readership – the back of the magazine outlines the different areas of its content, and describes how new members can contribute. For example, the categories are: On the job; where you can interview and shoot someone with a cool job; WTF (you understand), where photographers can submit their weirdest photos – with descriptions; Where I’m At, which is dedicated to show and tell pieces about a contributors town, city or neighbourhood; and lastly, Nice to Meet You, where one can shoot and describe someone interesting. Each category is advertised on a cut-out card, with the intention of being stowed in a camera bag, and comes with bullet-point ideas to get you started. With over 489,179 submissions to jpgmag.com by 142, 568 members, and 11,594 submissions to issue 16 by 6,970 members, this collaborative take is quickly gaining momentum.

Just as the democratic process made us feel – at least a little more – comfortable with the political process, so to can mass collaboration make us feel comfortable with the life process. The more and more individuals feel connected to a story, event, process, or disaster as the case may be, the more and more people will choose to care. If you polled a majority of Canadians about how effective they think their vote is, I’m willing to bet all the money in my pockets and all the money in your pockets, that a majority feel their vote will not matter. Even though politicians use the internet to make themselves available for comments by their constituents, the use of the Internet in this way is, considering history, relatively new and its effectiveness in rallying politically active people has yet to be tested over a long enough period of time. This is to say nothing of how reluctant older crowds are to approach a computer, and as well, the most politically apathetic generation are young people who are coming-of-age in generation I.

So what is the point? Mass collaboration is fast becoming the medium of communications and business networking; it is also making its way into the literary world. For example, as an endnote, authors Don Tapscott and Anthony Williams attached to their book Wikinomics: How Mass Collaboration Changes Everything, a website address where readers can involve themselves in the editing process of their work, and as well, can offer refinements to the arguments they make. Put another way; novels traditionally promote one way of looking at something, or to borrow the words of the Citizen Journalist job posting, are static lectures that offer little chance for collaborating with its creativity. In this sense, novels promote a method of learning that runs counter to the 21st Century experience.

Another standpoint, offered by Nicholas Carr in his article Is Google Making Us Stupid? written for the Atlantic, promotes that heavy internet usage is reprogramming the human brain in ways that deter our ability to read long works. He explains that ‘media are not just passive channels of information. They supply the stuff of thought, but they also shape the process of thought. And what the Net seems to be doing is chipping away my capacity for concentration and contemplation.’ The affect he says is the ‘mind now expects to take in information the way the Net distributes it: in a swiftly moving stream of particles.’ How does the Net affect mediums? Carr writes that ‘when the Net absorbs a medium, that medium is recreated in the Net’s image. It injects the medium’s content with hyperlinks, blinking ads, and other digital gewgaws, and it surrounds the content with the content of all the other media it has absorbed.’

So perhaps it goes without saying that the Internet’s centrality in the role of communications has altered the traditional image of the novel. The Internet is now pregnant with the latest weapon against the novel: the eBook. After all, why would you spend $32.99 on a hard cover novel, when you can download it for $5-10 at Project Guttenberg’s site for example?

Appearing on Rabble.ca, Wayne MacPhail’s article Living in the future with the book of books, describes the Sony Reader Digital Book. About the thickness of an iPod, and the appearance of a Moleskin notebook, MacPhail says that it ‘can store up to 160 average-length books. That means the Reader Digital Book is not really a book at all, it’s an uberbook. It can call up for display any of the thousands upon thousands of pages in its memory. You can bookmark a page, flip to a specific page and select books from your library with a simple menu.’ Its all-in-one nature will fit nicely into the modern image of convenience: maybe the Sony Digital Reader Book will be sold in the electronics department of your local grocery store!

Just as technology is moving literature away from traditional mediums, it is also popularizing new literary movements. In 1984, American poet Marc Smith created what he called Poetry Slam. He noted that ‘the very word poetry repels people. Why is that? Because of what schools have done to it. The slam gives it back to the people…we need people to talk poetry to each other. That’s how we communicate our values, our hearts, the things that we’ve learned that make us who we are.’

Smith’s Poetry Slam helped popularize the spoken word scene created by dynamic performers such as Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg, and William S. Burroughs. In a sense, poetry slam was marinated in the early 1980s with the free-flow of jazz, and the attitude of hip-hop. As well, as dissents and political activists began to advertise their messages through these mediums, spoken word and poetry slam inspired new artists, such as Saul Williams, to pick up their pens.

However, while bringing a new level of cool to poetry, slam and spoken word carries literature further away from the archaic novel. Inasmuch as slam expressed the values that are important to communicate, it also embraced the evolution in communication’s mediums. This movement has grown and continues to grow because of how accessible and easy to procure, recording technology has become. One explanation for this is the essence of poetry slam is a freestyle quality that cannot be pinned down on a page. Instead, recorders are used to capture the evolving flow and raw emotions of slam. The trouble this leads to the novel is that recording software has long-since been made available to the everyday person. Nowadays it is easy to burn discs, or to create your own studio album with a recording devise.

While technology and science are making transitions in the name of energy efficiency, however, the influence of the Green Movement can also be seen as having negative impacts on the novel. We have seen how the Internet has turned reader’s attention from the blank page, to the web page; however changing environmental practices are also playing their part to facilitate this shift.

Since improvements were made to the technology of recycling, reduce, reuse, recycle has become a well-known slogan. Over the years, the idea of recycling has spawned new trends for the design and production of goods utilizing recycled materials. Many people can recall seeing compact disc jackets boast of being made from 100% recycled material. Using paper plates at the cottage used to be considered a crime, but has been vindicated due to the fact that most are made of recycled materials, and can be recycled themselves after usage.

Recycling has long been a function most offices partake in as well. More likely than not, one can recall seeing ‘think before you print’ signs above network printing stations, which institutionalizes the importance of reducing the amount of paper being wasted. The fact that more and more offices are placing emphasis on economical use of paper, makes the internet more important and the novel seem out of touch. Of course, one cannot ignore the fact that publishers also use recycled material for their novels, however, with the prominence the Internet has in the 21^st Century, getting rid of the novel out right may not be far off.

Love;

Front-step kisses
and drive-in back seats
and caramel-corn retreats
between two sheets-
as we laugh until we weep,
or until we sleep.

something to chew on...

not borrowed or blue, but something new...

If you could stare at something and not blink, what would it be?

What would you attempt if you knew you couldn't fail?

If it weren't for light, would it always be night?

Free speech: the ultimate distraction

Usually this blog does not serve as my arena for rhetorical flushes of opinions that I intend anyone to adopt, but kids...that time has come.

While seated in the waiting room of the doctor's office one morning last week, I attempted to occupy myself by fixating on the television, since the View was on, I changed my mind and decided to read. While sifting through a pile of Good Housekeeping and US Weekly, and almost giving in to the fact that this particular doctor's office intended only to feed on the completely useless and mundane thus having nothing for me, I was delighted to find a Maclean's magazine with dog-eared pages staring up at me.

On the cover there was a picture of an African child, ravaged by Quashicore and wearing the tired, burdened face of a terrorized war-zone refugee. The point of the picture was to draw attention to the cover story inside about the latest element of the conflict in Darfur, in the Sudan. Of the many important topics facing the international community today, Darfur is absolutely near the top of the list.

While I feel that the resolution of this conflict is vital to the people of the Darfur region, and to the greater progression of the African Union, I'm writing for another purpose. The article begins on page thirty (or so) in the magazine, and after five pages, is interupted by...wait for it...Christmas 2006 holiday gift ideas. That's right...talking about today's important issues apparently has to come packaged with an intermission to remind us of a superficial holiday, where the 'haves' get more, and the impoverished are made to feel even worse then they already do.

After ten pages of advertisements for the color availabilty for IPods, chinos, and toy cars, the Darfur article continues. I realise that breaking up a coverstory is not a new thing, or a freak occurence, as magazines have to share column inches with other important issues, I just don't think that interupting a story on such an important issue is necessary to make way for advertisements. This is surprising to me coming from Maclean's magazine, but maybe not.

The question the editors have to ask themselves is of course, 'how best can we be the servents of two masters?' Everyone educated in the 'real world' knows that publications are paid for by advertising revenue, and editors and news directors have to hold the microphone and give ad-execs a reach-around at the same time, all the while presenting hard news that stabolizes, or increases a circulation. Circus show? Perhaps, depends on who you ask. Personally, I think this time they lost sight of the fact that the readers make the magazine not the other way around.

The people at Macleans have to realize that it is actions like this that fertilize the opinion that free speech is abused, and that advertisments are a waste of ink. Don't get me wrong, I like the Coke-a-Cola polar bears, but at least that's funny. Filling up advertising space should never come in the middle of cover stories that are trying to draw the public's attention to important issues. The editor's at Macleans need to realize the entitlement to free speach goes hand-in-hand with keeping it honest.

The article was about how rebels from waring tribes are crossing into neighboring Chad and are looting the homes of people that live there. This is the reality of a continent that needs all the support it can get, and I think North Americans are not only able to give that support, but if we consider ourselves the moral and political authorities, our news outlets should help cultivate that message, and not serve as greeting cards for the 'in-croud'.

The people are the magazine, and without us, there is no magazine!

this flight tonight...

paper airplane, please come back again.
come down through the clouds,
before my very eyes.
arrive on time to my surprise, I'll meet you at the gate.
hopes and dreams have set with
the sun, as we lie awake over the sea.
Come down through the clouds,
come back to me.

New Birth

My first face
as I glanced out
in space,
and starred at the
darkness beyond
the moon.
Orbiting the earth,
became flying
only to land;
floating only to
stand.
Late into the night
continued the flight,
over the rivers, oceans
and land.
O'Ryan's explosion
gave sight to the earth,
a distant star
untainted at birth,
a new face among
the crowd.

3 fingers pointing back

verbal abuse
is no excuse,
to scratch an itch
with a trigger.

spray-paint the face,
destored in space
staring you back
in the mirror.

every you

Every night,
I stay awake and listen
To the waves.
Invade my space and crash up against my ears.
Forgot his face,
Cause he hasn’t been around in years.
He returns again to disappear,
Before our eyes, starry night
In the clear.
Every day,
I thank the Gods that you’re okay.
Does your face hurt?
From where you landed
When you were falling down.
Is this our time and place to go,
Strike the match
And watch the glow.
Fools are we,
Who lie in the sea.
Casting stares into its depths.
We float,
But we want to sink.
Down to the bottom just to make us think.
About words we’d say,
If we came back to this day.
We found you sitting near,
The drive,
Beside the stairway to the basement.
Is this what they meant to say?
Blow kisses goodbye,
And call away the stars.
Light your lovers eyes,
With a spark from your flaming lips.
Let her feel your warmth,
you're floating away
in sinking ships...

passing time and space

Kissed by the ocean,
and swallowed by the waves,
Footprints in the sands of time.
Wanderers we all,
pass under the sun,
finding the shelter we crave.

Buildings amass, and cathedrals mundane,
locked by gate and key;
voices of the insane.
Laughter forced a smile,
showed teeth of glittering white-
Be that which destroys,
or that which creates;
of Frankensteins or doves.

Dilute the real with spirit or poison,
whichever, to pass a day.
Tired and weary,
distorted and dreary,
blots of ink that link and bleed.
Passes on stages, from one to the next,
without though of danger or speed.

Lockit...

hidden
secret
under-exposed.
darkened
hibrination
slumber
repose.
moisture
blurrs
vision
impaired.
silence
occured
hearing
dismantled.
brain
down
memory
low.
tonight
one
moon,
under
the
earth
I
go.

hopeful

So let us lay here,
drowning in the fire light.
Listening to the waves meet the shore,
and part again.

This is where I leave you,
staring at the ocean.
Place in your memory,
come back to it again;
A keepsake of time,
echoing the rythm
of laughter and friends.

Sunrise so beautiful,
and tears;
What's left to recollect,
a stamp for all the years.
Voices in the graveyard,
are calling out your name.
you try to answer me,
it just dosen't feel the same.

Wear a smile

Hide away,
listen to the angry mob,
speaking in different tongues.
What will they say,
when they see the sparkle,
in your eyes;
rise up and fade away?
Last night,
won’t happen every day.
Their turn to say,
that it wasn’t their fault,
because it never really is;
doesn’t make this nightmare okay,
like the rain that won’t go away.
Tonight, tonight,
this has all been about a dream.
Things are just as they seem,
replay in my head a thousand times.
Keeps skipping on the track,
where you were lost,
but I took you back.
Read a book,
and count the pages as you turn them.
Does it add up to your disappointment?
Was this your idea,
of pain and torture.
Or will it move you from this torpor?
Isolated in repose,
you changed out of your clothes.
And dawned the features,
of a dharma bum.
Take it back,
came from a book by Kerouac.
Your mind is traveling in circles;
replay the track.
Recordings of your voice taped back,
when you wore a smile.

Subdue the fever

Give me this day, the last day of your life. Walk with me through green fields, hands holding tight. On to memories where we left them, by eyes of passers by. We’ll walk under the moon, and comment on the stars. Jets over our heads and the red ball of Mars. High atop the cliff, over looking the houses down below, our pulses raise with pleasure, on lookers from the crowd forming below. Look into the mirror of the sea. What does your reflection look like in the red light? Of scars and burns, another day spent doping up our innocence and subduing the fever. Do you know your neighbor? Can you tell him that he’s going to die tomorrow, sipping on black comedy and floor disasters. This is today, what will your death bring to us?

REM cars...

streched out head to toe,
dream's hand catches me while I sleep.
turning covers to and fro,
without question, I've decended in deep.
stars twinkle and burn, and light up the sky,
throwing glare and fragments to obscure my eye.
floating above the earth, in a catatonic state,
drops of wax fall from candles at the wake.
the sun and heavens, play the field for the stars,
we slip between them in REM cars.

this call

last night, i woke you up on the telephone.
said I had gone out on my own,
can you take this call from heaven?
I'd seen your face on a picture downtown,
were you wondering if I was still banging around.
I had cried myself a river and proceeded to drown,
but would you reach your hand in for me.

I was crying out for the attention I crave,
some people are great, and some meet their grave.
can you take this call from heaven?
Telling you about the trouble I was in,
could you take me in your arms and make me whole again.
I was wondering was it possible by now,
could we sit down and write the story of how,
you and me, and it was all that it could be.
We walked right down, and laid beneath the sea.
Can you take this call from heaven?

We were on the mountain top, counting shooting stars.
Saw the big black sky, the red dot was Mars,
got lost in the milky way.
You turned to me and with a tear in your eye.
in front of all of this, you started to cry.
And you left me wondering why.
Hold my hand, cause I have something to say,
we never knew it then, but things are better this way, and hey...

can you take this call from heaven?

a birthday message...

Covered by the stiffness of the night, I walked the streets I used to know. Every corner screamed a memory, every face brought about a name. The orange glow that leaped from the windows of the old stomping grounds seemed comforting against the breeze. I crossed my arms and tightened myself up, as the pain of memories abandoned began to overtake me.

There were lines that snaked along the street like rivers. Among them, jovial faces gleamed like gold in the sand. These were the times made special by the gentle touch of a friend, or by the telling of story experienced by all. We were laughing about it then, and each knew this feeling would never cease.

Year passes year, and before you stop to realize it, the image staring back in the mirror no longer reminds you of yourself. You've slipped, but you're hanging on, motivated by the memories yet to be made. And, for a moment that seems more pure than any other, you look over your shoulder at your friends...and smile.

demons

It's all in a dream, things are not what they seem.
The feel and pulse of a new living thing,
crawling deeply underneath my weathered skin.
It's shadow lurks beneath me when I crawl,
pulls me down to the depths where I fall.
The fog has set in filling my head,
with answers to questions I dislike and dread.
My likeness in the mirror has not one head but two,
the unsettling difference between me and you.
It's path grows for miles like a cancer,
unravelling hope, and prayers for an answer.
These things haunt me throughout the night,
between these two sensations,
is the war that I fight.