BACK ON THE BLOG

Heard ya missed me...Well, I'm Back!!!

I'm back from summer hiatus. I figure, TV shows and teachers take summers off, why not me, too?

Really, I just got sick and tired of making excuses for my laziness to Gina and Demo Dave. Apparently, they look forward to these little written Tourette's exercises of mine. I love my fans so much I can never deny them what they want.

That's Showbiz.

Honestly, I have had ideas on what to write for three months and have struggled with summoning the energy to produce it. I need to go through a certain ritual to do these. I have to be relaxed enough to just stare at the screen for about ten minutes and write nothing. I have to play music I feel like listening to that won't distract me (at the moment it's Herbie Hancock). Essentially, I need to make a commitment to finish what I start.

The primary impetus for this blog today is a new transition I am facing in my life. I work full time, am enrolled in three college courses and have a very busy schedule making time for my loved ones. But because I also love doing this so much and I know how much better I will feel when I post this, I am promisiing to MYSELF that this will be a part of my daily routine.

The feedback I get from any of you who are willing to sacrifice a few minutes of your day to read these posts is like gold to me. I am truly humbled from the bottom of my cold black heart.

When I decided to restart this thing, I was reminded of an obscure Rush song called "Losing It". It's a soft, subtle gem of a tune with lyrics that vividly paint images of people who mastered their chosen art only to watch it disappear like a rapid sunset. If I ever tell myself I am too busy to do this, I will watch the attached video and pay attention to the lyrics after the jump.....




The dancer slows her frantic pace
In pain and desperation
Her aching limbs and downcast face
Aglow with perspiration

Stiff as wire, her lungs on fire
With just the briefest pause
The flooding through her memory
The echoes of old applause

She limps across the floor
And closes her bedroom door...

The writer stare with glassy eyes
Defies the empty page
His beard is white, his face is lined

And streaked with tears of rage

Thirty years ago, how the words would flow
With passion and precision
But now his mind is dark and dulled
By sickness and indecision

And he stares out the kitchen door
Where the sun will rise no more...

Some are born to move the world
To live their fantasies
But most of us just dream about
The things we'd like to be
Sadder still to watch it die
Than never to have known it
For you, the blind who once could see
The bell tolls for thee...