Ever wonder why you picked the one person for you? Love? Mystery? Unconsciously? Because of what they looked like? Interpersonal power workings? Instinctual mating drive, mate selection? Communication? Opposites? The sound of their voice? How was the decision made? Because of potential? Your own intuition? The price tag?

I don't know, but what a difference such a decision can make in your life!

People, (and maybe rightly so) are so often only concerned with themselves and nothing more. Ever notice that everyone wants to talk and no one wants to listen? Do people read books so they can talk about them? Think Facebook. Of course people read what others have to say and then they add their own tiny remarks in the form of some reaction and so forth. It is like the buzzing of a bee hive. Theatre in the late 1500's may well have been a kind of Facebook, all the gathering and the chit-chat, often moving in one direction, in one sense of order. Gather for a play, watch, talk about it, go home. Endlessly gregarious humanity.

Solitary blogs are no longer fashionable; single websites are stale. Group-think outside the borg is condemned.

Ants. Bees. Corporations. Group art projects are very popular.

A single person's point of view will be an antique.

Join up. It's free.

The ego needs to be kept aside when writing. A true line is written without ego. Whenever a writer claims that they are 'part of the scene...' or 'we are poets...' the ego rears its phony fur and false roar.

One of the hardest things to do in poetry to write a good first line; in fact it is so hard, that the very thought itslf that the first line has to be good is the main reason for the existence of free verse, or the general bibble-babble so prevelent, because, well, if the first line doesn't have to be good, nothing else does either, so nice general prose or jumbly junk is considered to be poetry -- that way, the claim as to whether what is written is poetry or not is not up for argument. The lowest common denominator becomes the norm: I write, therefore I am a poet.

All day, all night, 24 hours a day, many a poet's hat is worn on the head, without a poetical thought.

Having a dull day? Here I am running around taking pictures of door knobs.

A photograph fails more often than not. Most are plainly amuzing images, arty, like the sepia doorway image above. You know, thoughtful, composed, even though it is an image of mostly nothing. There are few great photographs. Most photographs have a meticulous left-brained stamp to them, which is in part due to the technological aspect of the means to capture an image: glass and electronics and/or chemical processes. There is a distance between the maker and the object, and little touch of the hand. The best hope is to share a moment.

Picasso said that inside every photographer is a painter. Thus, photoshop, and this Starbucks is where I go quite often, and as much as it is a nice view, messing with the image is fun, you know, adding a streetlight here and there to help make a more composed image. Ansel Adams 'burned' all his images, thus, to make the high contrasts that weren't really there.

Good morning. Looks like a romantic European terrace. We walk through romance all the time and don't even notice.