baggage on me mind
baggage hold me down
down me baggage hold
me no baggage more
Friday, July 14, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
When Will It All End?
When will the world understand that this is 2006, not BC 2006? With so many thousands of years of history, one would think that man would learn to stop mercilessly killing one another. Train bombings, air strikes, planes into occupied buildings, live burials, beheadings, wife killings, and on and on. Have people gone mad? Why are some so entrenched in a believe that nothing else and no one else matter?
Perhaps the universe by its very nature is violent. After all, it began with a Big Bang. Could it be that some of this energy has carried forward to life? I am too afraid to think of the consequences if the violence ends. Will the universe end too, if violence ends? Could the universe end the same way it was born? With a Big Bang?
Too many perhapses and too many questions.
Just one more: when will it all end?
Perhaps the universe by its very nature is violent. After all, it began with a Big Bang. Could it be that some of this energy has carried forward to life? I am too afraid to think of the consequences if the violence ends. Will the universe end too, if violence ends? Could the universe end the same way it was born? With a Big Bang?
Too many perhapses and too many questions.
Just one more: when will it all end?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Music
Last Sunday, I had the pleasure of watching Justin's piano recital. All the kids who performed were great. And, I'm certain all the parents who watched were greatly anxious! As I watched the fast fingers on the grand piano and the parents' eyes fixated and intent, a dark image came to my mind.
I saw a sick man in his dying bed, next to a grand piano. The man had a life-long passion with music and the piano, and specifically, with his son performing the piano. On the one side of the bed is an oscilloscope beeping faintly as the green lifeline spikes to a dignified largo. The son sits by the grand piano and plays his magic, tears in his eyes and sweat down temple. He must play, for this is his father's final wish. He must play. He must play well.
The movement of the notes flashes a life's memories through the man's mind. Each up and each down brings a quicker and shorter breath. Each panting brings more tears to the son's eyes. He must play. He must play well.
As the music climaxes, the man's breathing crescendos to a muted forte in prestissimo. On the last note, the green lifeline rests.
The audience applauds and I'm back in the hot recital room.
More music: Sunday Scribbings
I saw a sick man in his dying bed, next to a grand piano. The man had a life-long passion with music and the piano, and specifically, with his son performing the piano. On the one side of the bed is an oscilloscope beeping faintly as the green lifeline spikes to a dignified largo. The son sits by the grand piano and plays his magic, tears in his eyes and sweat down temple. He must play, for this is his father's final wish. He must play. He must play well.
The movement of the notes flashes a life's memories through the man's mind. Each up and each down brings a quicker and shorter breath. Each panting brings more tears to the son's eyes. He must play. He must play well.
As the music climaxes, the man's breathing crescendos to a muted forte in prestissimo. On the last note, the green lifeline rests.
The audience applauds and I'm back in the hot recital room.
More music: Sunday Scribbings
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