Trouble makes no scene, she sweeps in surgical and clean then leaves me begging on my hands and knees.

July 13, 2012 § 2 Comments


Trouble tracks me down.” Kevin Devine

Just write it. Let it go. Let it bleed. Get to the point where the fingers move at at least half the speed of the thoughts, then just let ride, let it roll, let it go. The music will help. So will the practise, the repetition of something new. Einstein once said that doing the same thing over and over and expecting the same result was insanity. Einsanity? No. Just no. Do the same things, expect different result, improvements in flow and speed and pace and expression and feeling.

Let them be yours. The words. They are yours. If your words aren’t yours that who’s are they? More importantly if your words aren’t yours then what is, your heart? your thoughts?

Bravery is underrated. It is underrated because it is rare. Some would say rare due to lack of opportunity to display it. I would say rare because it is smothered by cowardice. The opportunities are all around us. They too are ours.

Messy this one, isn’t it. Sort of all over the place. Not much of a punchy return, but a return non the less. I was lost for a few weeks there. Lost in a strange departure that bent and twisted and dragged. My commas are slipping, I keep using and without thinking to give the sentences ‘stream of concious’ style words. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. So is my heart. Mine and hers.

It’s good to be back.

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§ 2 Responses to Trouble makes no scene, she sweeps in surgical and clean then leaves me begging on my hands and knees.

  • AguessT says:

    “Messy this one, isn’t it”

    I like this post. (It is) more confused than the others.
    You write of words as if they are deeds…
    Can a thought ever be your own? Everything is formulated from something/someone/somehow that came before; just my feeling.

    Boccaccio noted: ‘…not only is poetry theology, but also that theology is poetry. And truly if my words, in so great a matter, merit little credence, I shall not be disturbed; at least let Aristotle, a most worthy authority on all great questions, be believed, who affirmed that he found the poets were the first theologians’
    What if the words are not (y)ours, what if words are the language of the gods?
    In this instance, could cowardice be the mistaken identity of humility?

    It’s like warm relief to be able to read your blogging of words, once more. Just saying…

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