I hope everyone is doing grand. I’ll be back to blogging soon. Thank you all for your lovely comments in the past. I hope to post something worth your reading very soon. 
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Tag Archives: b&w
New Specs
After spending the better part of the morning drinking coffee and sorting through books, I decided I’d show off me new specs.
It is truly astounding how lighting can alter one’s appearance. On the lighted side, I look like an unblemished lad, while on the dark side, my freckles and lines of wisdom appear.
P.S.: The new glasses are brilliant. I can read again without squinting!
Elegant Lace
I’m totally exhausted, so I’ll leave you with a wee poem I wrote almost a year ago. I shall return Friday evening with some new and original material. Not sure what yet.
Exquisiteness, youth and brilliance in motion,
Her purest of thoughts are my celestial notions,
Bringing forth perceptions of wonder and desire,
My heart skips as fanciful lips fervently enquire.
Her mystique, spirit, heart, and soul so tranquil,
Her adoring smile that rushes forth life’s grandest thrill,
Her ways of caring, nods of affection,
Beauty and grace; a tantalising deception.
She evokes love and kindness, from deep inside,
A deluge of emotions, setting forth a great tide.
She gingerly paints a world so serene
That life will never become a routine.
-Jefferson Davis-
Black and White Walkabout
Monday, I got off of work early and headed downtown to enjoy the particularly tepid spring afternoon. The townies were buzzing up and down the streets as bees laboured through beds of violet and maize blooms. While sitting between two flowerbeds observing the bees wander through a maze of flowers, I was mesmerised by their virtuosity, dedication, and speed at which they danced to the delicate notes of gravity.
After desperately trying to capture their slyness for a while, I decided to take every shot that day in black and white. The monochrome images have more depth, since they lack colour. Personally, I love black and white images. They leave a bit of the work up to the imagination of the viewer. Each person can have his or her own unique interpitation of an image. I reckon that is why I love to draw with charcoal. A white piece of paper, a piece of charcoal, and an imagination can create boundless depictions with limitless interpitations.
P.S.: Please let me know whether you like the images all grouped together like this or a few at a time.
P.P.S.: Did you think I’d be writing ’bout Obama getting his arse kicked? Ha!
The Arcanum of Flames (Fire Healer Redux)
“Son, your Great-Aunt is on her deathbed…we must go now.”
“What’s wrong with Aunt Eilwen?”
“We can’t discuss it now, get your book bag, and meet me in the truck”, he replied, whilst running for the exit.
After running the sheets of rain and knee deep mud puddles, I leapt into the pickup and asked, “Is she going to be ok?”
“No son, she is dying of old age, and there is nothing we can do about it”, dad replied, whilst buckling our seatbelts.
While driving round hairpin turns, he glanced at me, and said, “Sean, what your Aunt will tell you, will follow you throughout life’s journey. She has a magnificent, life altering, arcanum to give you that will change you forev….”
“…What are you talking about, dad? You are scaring me”, I pleaded, as tears welled up in my innocent eyes.
“Our family, my mother’s family, were witches and even warlocks in the old country; in fact, they were good witches, witches that cured illnesses, brought rain to the crops, and the like. Our family has passed ancient books of potions and incantations down through the generations. We have the special ability to heal burns. My grandmother passed it to me, but I cannot pass it to you. It can only be passed from male to female or vice versa”, he replied, while gazing through the sheets of water pelting on the windscreen.
When we finally arrived at her house, several relatives were huddled under the awning of the front stoop, smoking. We passed through the front entrance and were met by one of Eilwen’s daughters, Margery. She was crying, dabbing the tears away with an old handkerchief that had been dampened by the ashy drops of agony that murked her rosy complexion.
“Diarmad, bring Sean, Eilwen’s about to fade away”, Margery demanded, as she stomped down the hallway.
Diarmad, my second cousin, had been at University in Glasgow, when she received the call to come home. She marched back and forth between the kitchen and den carrying trays of food to the crowd strangers that carried on as though no one was dying a few metres away. When Aunt Margery called a second time, she laid down the tray of food, winked at me with a slight smirk, and started marching me down the hallway.
As she rushed me through the entrance of the bedroom, where my aunt was lying, she slowed to a gracious pace and held me with a tight grip. The room was devoid of light, except for the little candles strewn throughout the room. Only the occasional patter of sleet against the windowsills could be heard through the darkness.
