It's been some time since I Last wrote on this blog. Trust you me, it wasn't due to lack of inspiration, but instead lack of hours in my day.
So, let us delve into todays, thought. I labled this blog the idle thoughts of a Gentleman, but I know that I am simply striving to become a gentleman. Today, the thoughts that flood my mind are thoughts of the inner struggles we face in search of that peaceful place. I take photos, but rarely call myself a photographer, if I do, it's usually
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Monday, April 6, 2009
Over-dressed or Under-dressed?
Today someone asked why I tend to overdress. I looked him up and down and replied:
"I do not over-dress, the world is simply under-dressed. It is my responsibility to make the world a brighter place."
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Curse at 30
Maybe it was due to the restlessness in her belly, or maybe it was the lateness of the night, either way, all she could do was lay on her left side while still looking up at the ceiling staring into the darkness hoping to find the answers to the questions that burned within her. She rubbed her belly to soothe her soon to be born child and whispered in the dark “everything will be fine”. One can’t help but wonder if the words spoken were more of an attempt to convince herself then it was to reassure the unborn.
She was 29 and since 28 she started visualizing being a mother by 30. Being married seems to not have been a requirement for the picture painted in her mind… only a bonus. The fact that her biological clock was ticking seemed to justify having a baby… regardless to the fact that she didn’t have a real prospect in mind to build a future with. The pregnancy was an eye opener – she was alone.
Maybe he wasn’t what she had hoped he would be… maybe she lied to herself and convinced herself that he would be a good father just so she could have an excuse to have a baby. Truth be told, if she could have had a baby with no man, she would have… he was not a factor, he was simply a convenience.
I sat back and reflected on the curse of 30. How many women have allowed time to force their hand. How many have given up on romantic love and believe the only love that can exist is that between a mother and child. I started to believe that any man who was ‘decent’ would have a chance if he was around during the incubation of the curse at 30.
She was 29 and since 28 she started visualizing being a mother by 30. Being married seems to not have been a requirement for the picture painted in her mind… only a bonus. The fact that her biological clock was ticking seemed to justify having a baby… regardless to the fact that she didn’t have a real prospect in mind to build a future with. The pregnancy was an eye opener – she was alone.
Maybe he wasn’t what she had hoped he would be… maybe she lied to herself and convinced herself that he would be a good father just so she could have an excuse to have a baby. Truth be told, if she could have had a baby with no man, she would have… he was not a factor, he was simply a convenience.
I sat back and reflected on the curse of 30. How many women have allowed time to force their hand. How many have given up on romantic love and believe the only love that can exist is that between a mother and child. I started to believe that any man who was ‘decent’ would have a chance if he was around during the incubation of the curse at 30.
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Dangers of Restlessness
In mans attempt to conquer restlessness, he will busy himself with matters of little to no importance. This is merely an attempt to escape the true nature and reason of his restlessness. He occupies himself with matters aimed at disguising his restlessness, and occupying space and time instead of dealing with the restlessness itself. It is precisely at these moments that man commits some of his greatest blunders. I am willing to stake a small fortune and say more babies have been conceived out of restlessness than out of love.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Entry 15 (Confessions of a Writer)
I write because if I don't I'll Die. The average mind will assume that in making this comment I am referring to a physical death, however the mind that has acquired a bit of wisdom will understand that death comes in different forms. Physical death is quicker and final, however it is the death that lingers and robs men of their passions, their visions and all that matters in life that scares me.
I am a writer, the guardian of emotions; the time capsule that freezes tears, laughter, joy and pain. I am the pilot who can take you somewhere physically by directing you mentally all while controlling you emotionally. I am the voice of the voiceless; I see what most don't, make sense of the senseless and give shape to the shapeless.
it is currently 3:05 a.m. and while civilized world sleeps, I am fighting my demons all while reading passages from my peers wishing I penned those classic lines. I am living the contradiction, writing what should be while trying to live what could be, all while knowing that I could be all that I should be.
In my veins flow ink, every time I write I lose a part of myself, but artist are known to be self destructive. I soak in life hoping she will be my transfusion, she gives me topics she keeps me alive.
The meek shall inherit the earth ... but only after the strong die. we are all the same, then the doctor slaps our backside - we wake up and soon after, realizing - we are not all the same. Our voices don't sound the same, and our perceptions are different. There is a fine line that separates us, that line forms letters, those letters form words, and those words give texture to life and give her meaning.
I am a writer not because I write, my ego wont allow it to be that easy, at the same time it is not my ego that drives me to write ... she's not that shallow. I am a writer because my demons have forced me to be a warrior of sort and since the pen is mightier than the sword, I chose her to be my weapon of choice.
I am a writer, the guardian of emotions; the time capsule that freezes tears, laughter, joy and pain. I am the pilot who can take you somewhere physically by directing you mentally all while controlling you emotionally. I am the voice of the voiceless; I see what most don't, make sense of the senseless and give shape to the shapeless.
it is currently 3:05 a.m. and while civilized world sleeps, I am fighting my demons all while reading passages from my peers wishing I penned those classic lines. I am living the contradiction, writing what should be while trying to live what could be, all while knowing that I could be all that I should be.
In my veins flow ink, every time I write I lose a part of myself, but artist are known to be self destructive. I soak in life hoping she will be my transfusion, she gives me topics she keeps me alive.
The meek shall inherit the earth ... but only after the strong die. we are all the same, then the doctor slaps our backside - we wake up and soon after, realizing - we are not all the same. Our voices don't sound the same, and our perceptions are different. There is a fine line that separates us, that line forms letters, those letters form words, and those words give texture to life and give her meaning.
I am a writer not because I write, my ego wont allow it to be that easy, at the same time it is not my ego that drives me to write ... she's not that shallow. I am a writer because my demons have forced me to be a warrior of sort and since the pen is mightier than the sword, I chose her to be my weapon of choice.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Entry 14 (In response to a few comments posted...)
Today while randomly scanning my past entries I noticed that the one entitled “The preservative called America” (entry 12) had 9 comments … I hadn’t read the responses and looked forward to viewing them for the first time… but, 3 addresses no longer existed and the other 6 were removed because of 'malicious content'…. Kinda made me wonder what was written. Oh well, I’ll be sure to check my comments a lot sooner next time. Of course I reread the entry in question to see what could have inspired such vigorous and passionate responses …. and I wondered who could have written me with anything negative to say concerning that entry in particular.
I told myself maybe it was the title …. “Cheers to the preservative called America” … maybe they found America to be too wholesome and organic to be called a preservative.
Maybe they didn’t feel that hearing a fellow commuter’s ipod was annoying, or they may have felt that a 'made up' woman was truly a definition of a beautiful woman and I went to far to point out it was a sign of her insecurities …. Hmmm… I wondered if those people who wrote had ever had the opportunity to travel (and if so, not limit their stay on an all inclusive resort) or were they simply unfortunate souls whose outlook on life and reality was formed by what they saw via the media. I never said America wasn’t great, I just called it a preservative … hey, preservatives are great … maybe not totaly healthy, maybe not great “for you” but, still great nonetheless … well, maybe not GREAT, I won't overdo it, let's say good.
I told myself maybe it was the title …. “Cheers to the preservative called America” … maybe they found America to be too wholesome and organic to be called a preservative.
Maybe they didn’t feel that hearing a fellow commuter’s ipod was annoying, or they may have felt that a 'made up' woman was truly a definition of a beautiful woman and I went to far to point out it was a sign of her insecurities …. Hmmm… I wondered if those people who wrote had ever had the opportunity to travel (and if so, not limit their stay on an all inclusive resort) or were they simply unfortunate souls whose outlook on life and reality was formed by what they saw via the media. I never said America wasn’t great, I just called it a preservative … hey, preservatives are great … maybe not totaly healthy, maybe not great “for you” but, still great nonetheless … well, maybe not GREAT, I won't overdo it, let's say good.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Entry 13 (Inspiration (Paris pt. 1))
It’s been a minute since I last wrote, I decided to take a hiatus … or should I say my lack of creativity and inspiration forced me to take a prolonged hiatus. Although I have been known to find peace in local parks, on busy streets, in the comfort of a woman, this time it is Paris that was to be my source of inspiration. Not the city located on the west bank of the Kentucky lake in West Tennessee or the one located in Illinois but, the one that’s 6 hours away by Boeing 747 yet, 12 hours apart from the time one boards the plane to the time one exists CDG.
I had been feeling uninspired (which explains the absence of any post as of late) so, I decided to recharge my battery, revitalize my thinking. I figured a change of scenery would do both me and my writing some good, there’s just something about looking at all the depressed faces on the New York subway that eventually takes a toll on even the best spirits.
Paris was alive, the romanticism of the old city was alive and thriving (even Sarcozy can’t turn Paris into New York with is admiration for Bush,)
even though a Few Parisians have told me that Paris is changing for the worse, I can still understand why jazz musicians, artists in general and writers flocked to Paris while escaping New York.
In Paris, the roads are narrower, there is no need for gas guzzling SUV’s, smart cars, mini coopers, scooters and bicycles do just fine. Excess in Paris is not yet synonymous with breathing as it is in New York. It stills seems that in Paris your manhood is not determined by the size of your car or jewelry but, instead by the substance and creativity between your ears.
The government has set up public bike stations and the bicycles can be used by any one for a few coins … call me simple, there is nothing more appealing than a woman in a summer dress on a bicycle with a baguette in hand….. back to the bicycles….. I went off on a tangent with the visual… you don’t even have to return them where you originally took it, you can return it to any of the countless depots throughout the city.
Interracial couples walked the streets of Paris without being harassed by menacing stares or watched by simple minds that couldn’t see past color…
Paris is certainly no heaven, but it certainly was refreshing…. Then again, isn’t anything refreshing heaven?!?
I had been feeling uninspired (which explains the absence of any post as of late) so, I decided to recharge my battery, revitalize my thinking. I figured a change of scenery would do both me and my writing some good, there’s just something about looking at all the depressed faces on the New York subway that eventually takes a toll on even the best spirits.
Paris was alive, the romanticism of the old city was alive and thriving (even Sarcozy can’t turn Paris into New York with is admiration for Bush,)
even though a Few Parisians have told me that Paris is changing for the worse, I can still understand why jazz musicians, artists in general and writers flocked to Paris while escaping New York.
In Paris, the roads are narrower, there is no need for gas guzzling SUV’s, smart cars, mini coopers, scooters and bicycles do just fine. Excess in Paris is not yet synonymous with breathing as it is in New York. It stills seems that in Paris your manhood is not determined by the size of your car or jewelry but, instead by the substance and creativity between your ears.
The government has set up public bike stations and the bicycles can be used by any one for a few coins … call me simple, there is nothing more appealing than a woman in a summer dress on a bicycle with a baguette in hand….. back to the bicycles….. I went off on a tangent with the visual… you don’t even have to return them where you originally took it, you can return it to any of the countless depots throughout the city.
Interracial couples walked the streets of Paris without being harassed by menacing stares or watched by simple minds that couldn’t see past color…
Paris is certainly no heaven, but it certainly was refreshing…. Then again, isn’t anything refreshing heaven?!?
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