Snowy Static

Snowy Static

Sometimes I am compelled to speak
With nothing relevant to say
At other times, when I am alone with my thoughts
There is nothing but dead air
Like the snowy static you used to see
When the local television stations were signing off

Sometimes, there is simply nothing to say

I think I might like to have a day of snowy static
A day void of any intelligible thought
A day when the picture in my mind is a vast, desert-like
Span of empty space

Not to be confused with a quiet place to think
But truly a place absent of intention, purpose or relativity or thought

Imagine a place in time
Free from purpose, emotion, data and reality
A place that simply is…

Is it possible to achieve a state-of-mind?
A geological location, or a short term reality –
Where this very dialog has no value

I am not suggesting death or comatose
I don’t mean that bright light that calls out to you
Somewhere between here and eternity
I don’t mean anything morbid at all

In today’s vernacular, it might sound more like:
Pressing the pause button
Performing a reboot or a systemic fragmentation
A time-out from mental processing

Snowy Static

People are like my hands

People are like my hands

Some are content to rest
In the pocket of idleness
Resigned to useless twirling
And the finger games of unnecessary rest

Some are busy
Tasking and exacting
Feverishly executing
The mission of activity

Still some are callous and worn
Knotted in pain
Pressed on by what is yet to be gained

Cruiser

Iron Man

It was Sunday afternoon. Sydney and I were at Borders Book Store Southpark, in the Seattle's Best Coffee Shop. Sydney had the Lemon Pound cake that she paid for with the money I gave her for cutting the grass. I never imagined she'd do it. The fact that we had a manual mower made it even more impressive...

I had the White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookie. Tracy stopped in briefly, after a time of shopping for "Vintage" furniture. I shared my cookie, but I am afraid I wasn't very happy to do so.

I did this drawing while waiting for Sydney at a beauty salon called MO Hair.

Smelly Cat

Sydney got her hair done today. We laughed about how we have each heard people say, "I got my hair did". It seemed like old times for me. Syd and I have spent many Saturday mornings at the salon. There is no other experience like the African American Salon.

I always get curious looks, as you don't see too many Black Men taking their daughters to the beauty shop. Of course, I get all of my instructions from my wife. Over time I have learned phrases like, Wash-N-Set, Doobie, Kiddy Perm, Touch-up, etc. I don't pretend to know what all that means, and because we are dealing with a black women's hair, I simply say what I am told to say, and no-one gets hurt.

After the doobie, we spent an hour or so at the "Smelly Cat". I wouldn't be caught dead at a place with a name so, well -gay, unless I was spending time with my daughter. Smelly Cat is a beatnik style coffee shop in the artsy district called NO DA, short for North Davidson, While we were there I brought back another tradition from my past with Sydney. While she was reading I did a sketch of her. I like how it came out. This is one of numerous drawings I have done of her over the years. Most of which, coincidentally were inspired and executed at a coffee shop. More often than not the coffee shop was Starbucks. Good coffee, a fresh sketch book and an afternoon with The Syd-Meister - Life is good!

As I wait...

I examine my hands to discover a tar like grit beneath the nail on my left index finger
I enlist the pointed corner of my opposing thumbnail to chisel away the unwanted soot.

The exercise proves therapeutic - even gratifying
As when eliminating the descending alien attackers in an ole school video game
Like crossing off an eight-letter word (having a percussion sound) for boredom - in a crossword puzzle

After a moment of review all nails check out positively
Then, with one last stroke of my thumbnail my impulse to groom is well satisfied
And I rise from the doldrums just as the light changes to green