Tag Archives: black & white photography

Expansion

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Re-post from Hippie Peace Freaks Facebook page

Re-post from Hippie Peace Freaks Facebook page

Large and wide as the Indian Ocean. Breaching this now moment with the grandness of orchids wild along the road to Bangkok from Phuket. Growing in vision that trips over the expected and launches the blind traveler on paths forgotten, but laden with the smell of spice lands and dark forest loam. Fuller still with promises of sparkly bangles and tea cakes and rich dark coffee. Exploding on the senses with a lover’s kiss and the freshness of new snow. A wilderness of the heart that leaps from a backyard to the Russian Steps flowing in winter wheat and endless horizons. Unstable with its possibilities of more and more and more. Chemical interactions that leave you spinning in a world of spiritual alchemy. Expansion. The hunger of the human spirit and the seed that births Universes.

KBCO: Flash Non-Fiction, Episode 1

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Re-posted from Meditation Masters Facebook page

Re-posted from Meditation Masters Facebook page

KBCO
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the music. I didn’t tell the others either. I like music, right? It was easy to capitulate to endless KBCO. I’d make it okay because there is no music I won’t listen to, but here we are. You looking at me and me looking at you across the therapist couch and all I can say is I’m sorry. I’m leaving you, not because of the music, but in a way it is about that, isn’t it? I’d be pissed, too that there wasn’t a chance to show me you could do Lavay Smith and the Red Hot Skillet Lickers. Except we both know you couldn’t. I’ve got that bad habit of picking men that only do their thing – and I follow. It’s not their fault as it isn’t yours. You didn’t tell me to be putty picking up your patterns. I just did it. I should’ve made you listen to Buckwheat Zydeco and Willie Nelson or told you folk music sort of sucks when I’m happy. I want KC and the Sunshine band or maybe some Barry White. Or forget all that 70’s shit and let’s just fire up the Awolnation or Atlas Genius. But that look would come over your face and you’d wander off to a bookstore or coffee shop or down to the basement. So I never turned it on. Stupid really, you were gone anyway. Don’t you see? You were never there. I was afraid you’d leave. You wouldn’t love me, so we stayed with endless REM and Fleetwood Mac until I was ready to chew off my own self-imposed chains. It wasn’t intentional that I had no faith in your ability to hear my tunes. It just became obvious that whenever I sang my own song, it seemed to be a tune you didn’t want to hear.

Work in progress from the Front Range Writer’s Group, Marj Hahne host