Archive for the ‘Creative Writing’ Category
Purposeless Randomosity
Happy September!
Do not expect to find any answers in this post. But feel free to wallow in questions that hold little in the way of purpose…
Why aren’t there weeds in the woods?
Is it possible to yawn during an angry tantrum?
Would rock ‘n’ roll music have evolved if the only instruments that existed to this day were the same ones used in classical orchestral music?
Courtesy my friend David P.: Someday, will there be an implant that allows humans to capture an image that we see through our eyes so we can take pictures without having to dig out our camera?
How would your performance at your day job be affected by having a stadium of 80,000 people watching you and the job limited to 90 minutes to complete, while the spectators cheered and jeered?
How come we still call professional sports, “sport”, when it’s become so much like work for the millionaires participating in it?
How does Lindsey Buckingham, guitarist/singer with the band Fleetwood Mac, elicit all those notes and sounds out of his guitars with that finger picking style at the speeds he does?
Do scientists get embarrassed to release reports of studies they have done that come to conclusions that are absolutely common sense obvious to all the rest of us?
Is anyone surprised when damages from disasters reach higher dollar amounts than ever before?
What if people bought artist’s work while they are still alive instead of waiting until they die?
What would it be like if everyone always smiled a genuine smile, all the time – even when it didn’t feel genuine?
Is it possible to look deeply into someone’s eyes and not really see them?
What would it be like if you had to teach someone how to be you and describe how and why you do everything the way you do?
Being *this* John W. Hays is a lot like being different than just being the same as what it would be like if I were being unlike how it is when I become aware I am being more like what it’s like when I am being like what all the other John W. Hays named individuals would be like were they to suddenly take stock in what being *this* John W. Hays would be like in any other shoes than mine, if you know what I mean.
The Middle of June
I may be jumping the gun just a bit, because the picture party for Jim Klobuchar’s Adventures’ “Jaunt with Jim” bike ride, won’t occur until this evening, and that is where I will be premiering my video to a ‘live’ audience, but loyal readers here at Relative Something deserve some special privileges…
Here is a sneak peek at my version of Jim’s annual week-long bike trips around the state of Minnesota and surrounding region:
Little Lights
Little lights
scattered
underneath the night
echoing something
not quite right
things coming to this
after all these years
we’ve had to fight
for principles like peace
real understanding
and an abolishment
of fear and blind suspicion
but right or wrong
the balance of light and dark
persists forevermore
let’s combine our lights
and hang out together
in the warmth and love galore
while those much less inspired
brood in their doom and gloom
on the far side of the room
like dust destined to settle
as we sing
our hopeful tunes
© 2009
Save This
Save This
What if it was random writing?
Kind of like stream of consciousness
Only less organized
Not that some coherent thought
Would voluntarily show itself
A lot like the feeling you experience
When you are waiting for your ride
How many different versions
Of strictly rhetorical questions
Does it take to produce
A result so much less inspirational
Before the fabrication becomes
Entirely forged self evident
And the versions that evolve ensure
That self-conscious dash for the car
As if every eye was blatant aware
Saw each nuance and crack in veneer
With all judgment force then passed
Whole reputations effectively formed
Witness for defense denied
Reason most likely wronged
Imperceptibly darkness dawns
Light that was but a different shade
Suddenly burns bright the increased contrast
While still the line of cars
Fails to match the waiting heterogeneity
Though in transition
As slow as the evening falls
One seems to find the other
As if choreographed by fate
Until the lone straggler
Gets picked up late
And whisked to the next destination
Leaving solemn solace behind
To deal with all that remains
Of the questions
Which linger unasked
Hinting at perpetual
Ineffectual translation
©2001
Deep
deep, deep breaths
that have nothing to do
with the reason
they are being breathed
inspire
wonder beyond the seen
close to the way
your left hand is resting
so lightly
as if I were too hot to touch
and the sound
of the clock ticking
almost vapid
though fascinating nonetheless…
ideas wiggle
to gain footing
when the breath,
the hand,
the clock ticking
align
to fall flat
in a pile
no thicker than
the space between time
but deep,
deep as a mind
can be mined
Relative Something 