perhaps i will write no more
when all i can think to put down
on paper is my love for you.
in former days that meant something-
me writing my heart between the lines,
you pretending not to notice.
but now in your absence
i'm excavating my own buried treasure,
writing and receiving my own mail,
trying to surprise myself
with the magic trick i perform
for no one else.


i used to write when i was bored. or when i was lonely. or when i was bursting with love. or any other time. i used to spend nights just scribbling away at my little notebooks - to see what i could write, what i could come up with. on nights like tonight, when i had nothing to do and no one to call, i would head "out" to some coffee shop where they knew my usual drink, if not my name, and i would spend the night writing about....everything. well, not everything i guess. it was probably mostly about how i was alone and how i liked some girl and how she probably didn't like me, and all that. and look where it's got me, all this writing. i sit here writing out of boredom and loneliness and so on, still. but from now on, no more poetry. if poetry is what you would call it. so one day when i'm dead and famous, and people wonder why i stopped writing, the "poem" above should explain it well enough. i'm really interested in finding a new way to live. things like poetry and music remind me of who i used to be and who i used to want to be: a poet, a musician, a romantic. i feel like i just can't do that anymore, although i'm giving music a fighting chance. writing used to be my way of expressing myself, and i would spend hours and hours writing the same thing a hundred different ways. but again, what good has that done me? so i say so long to writing poetry, so long to being a "romantic" in a friday-night coffee shop, so long to beating myself up over not being good enough for a girl. i'll be the king of america before i write one more line about all that.

Go ahead, pop you some bubble wrap....

Martin Sexton live

sorry the sound doesn't exactly match up with the video...that's just a streaming problem that i don't know how to fix. but you get the idea :) and i'm also sorry that the sound isn't too good...i was right under a speaker and it was just too much for my camera. but notice how he goes smiling crazy at the end of the song. haha, that makes me laugh.

"i'm diggin' this microphone..."

i learned at least two things tonight at cat's cradle. the first is that martin sexton is just sick...and by sick i mean completely awesome. the second is that he never stops moving around, and in a dark club it is impossible for me to get a clear picture of him. oh, but somebody got video :) shhh, don't tell cat's cradle. also, martin has a second mic that he can put different effects on, including electric guitar distortion, for when he wants to take a solo over top of his solos.

There is a Hell named in our Creede, and a Heauen, and the Hell comes before: If we looke not into the first, we shall neuer liue in the last.

-Thomas Dekker

battle of the britches...

with the coming of the summer season, there is one matter that remains in the front of my mind. whether i'm driving, or walking, or running, or just looking outside, i know that the summer is coming, and with it an irrepressible, uncontrollable, and rudely intrusive heat. now, i honestly believe that my body was designed for mild springtime temperatures; say, between 68 and 72 degrees. i can prove this with scripture if necessary. but nevertheless, i can't ignore the fact that my car's air conditioning system has passed on to the next life, or that pants, socks, and shoes are the top three causes of heat stroke in north carolina between may and august.

let's get honest here. my legs don't live up to the standard of what some might call "attractive". i have guy legs. legs that for nearly nine months have been shrouded in the protective fabric of my favorite jeans. i guess, in a way, my pants are my security blanket. you can't take legs like these and just disclose them to the public and the light of day without warning. but it seems to get so hot so soon, with no period of transition. maybe i need to migrate north for the summer.

who can relate?

My thoughts had reverted also, and for the last time my eyes saw the little hut through the pinewood haze. I met Mary there, and we came back to the present together.
I have already told you, reader, that this conversation took place no longer ago than yesterday.
"Very well, ma'am," I said, trying to put a brave face on it, "I will come to your tea-parties, and we shall see what we shall see."
It was really all she had asked for, but now that she had got what she wanted of me the foolish soul's eyes became wet, she knew so well that the youthful romances are the best.
It was now my turn to comfort her. "In twenty years," I said, smiling at her tears, "a man grows humble, Mary. I have stored within me a great fund of affection, with nobody to give it to, and I swear to you, on the word of a soldier, that if there is one of those ladies who can be got to care for me I shall be very proud." Despite her semblance of delight I knew that she was wondering at me, and I wondered at myself, but it was true.


And thus Barrie ends The Little White Bird, and I pick up another book.

what tom.....runs?

i remember the days when i could go for a run at lake lynn without being swarmed by the paparazzi. unfortunately, it appears that somewhere along the way i said or did something that makes my afternoon run newsworthy. perhaps it was that i still have christmas lights up in my room; or that i am the first one to check out The Little White Bird from dh hill since 1992. whatever it was, it seems that these freelance photographers will stop at nothing to get that oh so candid shot of yours truly.

i must say that the only reason that i did not push that photographer into the depths of lake lynn and sell his camera on ebay was that it was a digital camera. why does this matter? well, he was able to show me the picture, right then and there, and i must say it didn't turn out half bad (except, as you can see, i haven't had a chance to work on my golden tan). notice that brave grimace - that is the smile of a champion. and so, with a stern warning and a sweaty handshake, i sent him on his way. the end.

"I am in danger, I see, of being included among the whimsical fellows..."

i try to be as honest as possible here, being that this is my blog and if i'm not, who will be? and so i say that this blogging has become tiresome, almost as much as shaving or eating. the only difference is that this is always something new - i thrive on creativity - and that none of you watch me shave. i hope. so what does tom have to be honest about? have you ever read something and it just described you so closely that you can't believe it? well, i recently checked out The Little White Bird by j.m. barrie from dh hill. if anyone is interested in knowing my life story for the past year or two, read chapter 9 of that book. it is entitled 'a confirmed spinster'. if that doesn't tell you enough. basically, the narrator suddenly realizes that he has changed as a person without knowing it, and looks back on his life to find when and how it happened. it was like reading a biography of myself. but this is where i stop being honest and let those of you who care enough read for yourselves.