Another of the great mysteries of life is how people will live their lives and ignore the work of this century on psychology. I use the word psychology in a light manner. In other words, if your car breaks down, you call a mechanic; if your mind breaks down in some irrational manner, you call a shrink -- but most people don' t call a shrink or seek help. They think they have the absolute right to live their life their way -- and they do -- but why ignore science? There are patterns, there are needs to look under the hood, or under the body of the car with mirrors to check things out, to look for bombs if nothing else, if not the engineering skills of the mechanic.

One only moves forward with knowledge. Knowledge, not passion. Passion will fall by the wayside, knowledge guides.

Every one of us is running by some one else's window, and maybe they see you and maybe you see them, but it is all one great confluence of time and place, even the people you love, even someone special, because a moment here or a second there, and some meet and some never meet.

Well, this is my impression of the state fair. I couldn't find any interesting people to take pictures of, so with a positive attitude I looked up.

You don't want to hear what I really have to say. Of course, who am I to talk?

http://picasaweb.google.com/tomjardine is the free picture site where I will be loading photos anyone can see, in little slide shows, for the rare viewer.

Anyone can open their own site and post pictures.

I always like to think of what wisdom I have learned recently and to write about. I haven't learned anything recently.

The Mucky Duck

A few final pictures. The restaurant is the Mucky Duck, the name taken from an affectionate nickname for the White Swan, in Shakespeare's day.

In the slide show, on the bottom right corner is a link to the picassa site and by going there the pictures can be seen and there is a slider to make the pictures larger, if one cares.

Sanibel 6 2008

Intimacy with the world, getting as close as possible.

More pictures in a day.

Well, the last night here, I leave tomorrow. Lots of new pictures, almost three hundred, and I will make an ordered sense of them when I get back.

I did not make the shell heart on the beach, I was riding by on the bike, thus the tire marks.

Back to the old reality tomorrow.

Eight miles or so on the bike, on the beach.
The pictures of the huge house under construction was amazing. At least 20 thousand sq.ft. The main room is almost 40 feet wide facing a zero-horizon pool, I think they call it, when you do not see the edge of the pool.

Wonderful place, great time to be here.

Busy day running the body around.
Since being here I have written about 5 thousand words in two pieces, long narrative stories, a mix of poetry and story telling, very moralistic, or with hinted wisdom.

What a great place for rest and relaxation.

This morning, trying to figure out where to ride the bike, I watched dolphins, a pod of about 6 or so, heading to the lighthouse and inlet. So I walked that way a few miles, and it was getting hot by the time I got back.

Well, all this seems to be 'here are my vacation pictures' kind of stuff. Oh, well.

...
the calm of hope, faultless mode of wish,
desire to be the steward of beauty,
the momentary tenant of heaven achieved.
...

These are out of order, but I rode the bike down the path to the beach and watched a storm approach. The gulf turned green, the clouds turned dark, and by the time I got to the condo, wind, rain, lightning, power outages. It was fun watching the whole gulf suddenly lit up by lightning for a brief second. The next morning, bright and sunny.

This should come out to be pictures of Sanibel.

The light house at the tip of the island, at the inlet between Sanibel and mainland.
Dinner at evening with the one you love.
And under the rising moon.
A worthy shot, I thought, of a clam, or what is left over after someone else's dinner.

I am always amazed at how, when writing a story, the story is right in front of me, and I hardly have to make anything up.

Sanibel

Two lovers walking together toward the sunset.

This guy is checking out dinner on the beach. He caught something but I couldn't see what it was.

Night gets dark quickly, and there are no lights on the beach, so one of the secrets as to why people find magic here is that, just like in the olden days, when it gets dark, they go home instead of running around to no purpose. More a natural rhythm.

Sanibel

A few hundred miles beyond those sparkles is the hurricane "Ike."

The approach to the units and two people and a seagull.

It is all about controlling time and not letting time control you. Maybe control is not the best word, maybe modulating time sounds better. All I know is that half my life slipped away before I knew it. I chased things I had no need to chase.

There will come a time when everything in your life needs to be reconsidered.

It must be like stepping on your own boat for the first time.

Sanibel Island

Suddenly, in between hurricanes, I find myself on Sanibel Island, Florida, in a magnificent unit, alone for ten days.

I just walked an hour on the beach, the return trip against the wind from hurricane Ike's outer bands. I can see the curved clouds of a band, for lack of better terminology.

What heaven.

What heaven. Here, pictures. Enough talk.

One of Life's Mysteries

One of the great mysteries of life is how you might like person A yet that person likes person B whom you cannot stand at all. How does this happen?

Does person A like you in reality, (for lack of a better term?)

Is life and love really no more than knocking bowling pins or spinning marbles?

I guess these things are impossible to figure out.

For example: is that a romantic picture or a smelly fishing boat?

Today I spent time jumping from one poetry site to another, one poetry blog to another, and seemingly gathering information, but then after a couple hours, figured out that there was no information. It was all that endless useless networking kind of bibble-babble, none of which amounted to the bettering of writing skills.

Spent almost all day yesterday writing. I think anyone's productivity will increase if they have space to work that is all their own and not the house where people are, where bills are paid, and phone calls come in. It is funny, though, how expensive even 1,000 feet of space can be, if it has a bathroom, A/C, heat, lights and so forth. A place for books, desks, lamps, chairs and the like. I finally have such a space, and it is truly amazing for the spirit to concentrate.

First the will, then the art, then the space will come around.

Consider carefully when you are upset about what someone says about you. Sometimes someone you object to helps you more than a friend.

But you know this already.

May Already?

May already, already May. What have I done?

I'm caught on the wires
while speeders speed by.

So many going fast,
so few saying hi.

Back from vacation, ready for the next vacation. All earth is one big vacation, as long as you are running around, sitting around, watching the parasails over the waves. Smack dab in the middle of heaven, sometimes it is hard to stop and get the camera out.

Happy 4th.

Remember the real fireworks.

Sunset over the Hill Country of Texas last night. The very last of the sun is going down right at the horizon. I missed the glorious part of the sunset, but the afterglow is important, too. The part of the poem that stays with you long after you read a poem is the important part.

Every woman is a gamble. You never know which way the balls are going to roll. Marriage is one of the most complicated things to get yourself into. A lot has been written about marriage. To make a commitment to another person is a wild thing to do. Gawd, after ten years of living with someone do you every get to know them? No.

Everyone keeps changing, and that is the poem for today.

There is nothing more wonderful than having a cup of coffee out on the deck in the morning and reading a book of poetry. Except now, I've given up coffee. I think it is weird stuff. So, now there is nothing more wonderful than being out on the deck and reading a book of poetry. Except now, I hate poetry. I can't stand it. That's why I try to write poetry.

To live a long time without a major tragedy is good luck. How few of us count our blessings. It isn't easy to count our blessings. It takes effort.

Here is an artist you might enjoy,

http://www.marybickford.com/

No matter how old we get, (I am convinced) emotions often remain simple and easily understood--what confuses and stresses is when there are too many conflicting emotions, when feelings are forced by necessity into being modulated by thinking.

Forlorn Future

Sometimes things happen to other people which ends up changing you. Now there is an idea for a poem. My wife goes to a funeral and brings back flowers because they have so many. One day she will bring them home for me, my funeral. So I say, nice flowers, while I have the chance.

Been Awhile

Under the weather for awhile. First an icestorm, then the flu, then the usual stress.

In the meantime, more ghastly poems in the mail box, more horrid poems everywhere.

Mangled sentences do not a poem make. Why is the simplest of all theories the hardest to get across to people? If one cannot say something directly and with simplicity, maybe one should not say it at all. In a great effort to claim creativity, poets twist words and meanings into a mix of vomit and fecal stuff. Don't mangle everything, don't codify.

Place

There are places with magic; magical places. Such places are often tiny, scaled to human size. Islands in the chaos.

Fells Point

The Half King

There are vortexes that lead to centers of thought. A thousand voices often lead to one voice. Worlds often lead to one place. An artist often has one picture, a poet one poem. A life, one love. A youth, one goal. Not to be considered a restriction but an element of inclusion to be considered. Each of us can be many things, and have many goals. But how rare are true compassionate friends?

View out the The Half King, Manhattan. The Owner wrote the book, The Perfect Storm

Half King (NYC Pub) Review - New York City Restaurant Reviews ...HERE is how you can tell the Half King is a bar for writers: First, ... But the Half King, named for an 18th-century American Indian leader, is unlike any ...

Wonder at Life

This carving looks like somebody I know, but I don't know who. Anyway, he certainly does have a wonder look about him.

Some poems are answers and some are questions. Answer, question. Maybe a balance works best. Too much of either may well ruin a poem.

A Dog Goes Prancing

Sometimes, just before the sun goes down, a dog goes prancing by on his evening walk, his head held high, maybe chasing something.

_________

Some poetry seems to be 'throw away' poetry. You read it once and don't really want to read it again. Other poetry gets read over and over, across years as well. So what is the difference?

Virtual Read

The 'Virtual Read' is mostly done, about 15 pictures more to go. Test it out if you will, and any feed back is appreciated.
Visit www.thomasjardine.com and Click "Virtual Read" on the left.
Or here

A Virtual Reading

Coming soon to a computer near you, a virtual reading experience, read all the poems in Virtual White Orchids, my only in print book, on the web! No need to buy anything! Poetry should be free.

Each page will be photographed and visible, as if you are there reading it yourself! Ah, there is nothing like taking time to read a poetry book, through lunch and the evening!

Watch here for when it is available, and wait for the surprises! Next week!

An international on the internet first!

Moon

The missing element on the charts is the element of time. We live without much regard to the fact that not far above our heads is the edge of space, and small planets passing by. I look out there every day. Do you?

Never

You never know what is going to happen next. There is nothing more difficult than dealing with an individual who does not bring all their thoughts to the surface and express them, but is tied to subconscious traumas and psuedo means to resolve unconscious snags and patterns. It is so tiresome, energy draining and a waste of life.

Life is to be a form of art, not unconscious bibble-babble, like most poetry today.

Almost a Year

I have been working on one poem almost a year. Twelve lines. It has also been a very busy year, doing other things, the things that are fun but don't make any difference. Everyone wants to make a difference.

Dawn the other day as I opened the front door.

Not So Interesting

If the poem you are writing has you yourself as the end result, however interesting you think your opinion or view is to the world, put the poem back in the drawer. The reader doesn't want to know about you, the reader wants to know about how to get along in life better, how to see things more clearly, and so forth. And you, you are probably not so interesting, that is, if the subject is always you.

Every few months I get myself in a situation by which I am terribly confused and/or it is tangled up in some complicated manner, so much so that I need advice. But where can one get advice these days? Everyone knows the catch: if you need financial advice ask a financial planner--but if the financial advisor knew anything, he wouldn't be wasting his time being a financial planner except to his friends, and who takes financial advice from a friend? So where does one get advice about ones own artwork in progress? If a poet needs advice he will end up talking to practicing poets and practicing poets can't see anything objectively, so, there is no advice except some sort of background noise guidance. But I have advice for poets. If the poem you are working on about is about you, stop writing the poem.

Few subjects, many subjects

I once heard that there are few subjects for poems. Love and death. Well, everything we do we do for love. After doing what we do to survive. But then, there are an infinite number of little awareness items to joyfully ponder, that is, inbetween surviving and love, which often can be the same thing. Stingray at Sea World a couple of weeks ago.

blooogs

Poetry blogs everywhere, not one about poetry. I read poetry blogs whenever I can, but can't find any that talk about poetry. Just schedules, meetings, announcements, stuff, general stuff. Not much different than the poems I read.

WELL TOM, that's the way people are. Most people are concerned with their immediate world, since they have to be concerned with their immediate world.

If you don't have something to say, don't put it in a poem.

Main Street

Locals.

Musicians

True Light

Out in the midwest, an evening shindig as the last of the light fades. Half a dozen musicians sing songs and play tunes, and the locals come out and sit their chairs on the bricks of main street. True light, very close the marked geographic center of the US.

1-2

Now a-days, every time I listen to poets talk, I am shocked by how much they want to belong. They really want to belong to a group or class or something. Imagine Van Gogh or Picasso or Frost squabbling to belong to some group full of wanna-bees, old women and old men blithering on about stuff they know.

NOW TOM, everyone wants to belong and to be understood by their peers. Who else really understands them? In the poetry world, the audience is made of people who write poetry themselves, thus the group is formed whether or not anyone chooses to be a part or not. Relax, be friends with the people who even have the least inclination to appreciate similar values in any art field.

NGTV

There is an old rule: if you are negative, people won't like you. Therefore, it is better to be positive and praise everything, then you will be liked. Human nature simply thinks in this manner. It is a sort of mob effect. Everyone wants to be liked.

What to do? Just try not to draw anyone's fire. What poet said that?

Arrowgants.

Poets do exhibit personality trait patterns. The first is arrogance. This remarkable trait has several major functions, such as to cover over insecurity and mediocrity. Arrogance hides behind politically correct signposts: the poet will not explain their art, they act unapproachable, and they 'network' which means they praise others to get praise back. Another form of hidden arrogance is exposed by listening to the substructure of their expressions; this is very subtle: they talk 'inclusively' rather than 'exclusively.' True creativity by nature is exclusive. But if one can't be creative, well, one might as well be included, so they put on their party hat and say, Look at me! I'm a poet!

I probably sound like an old sourpuss.

Some watch TV, some stay up all night,
their keyboard struck with lines of blue moonlight.

Classic, Contemporary

It seems only poets read poetry. However curious, the general public does not read poetry. At least not on a regular basis. There doesn't seem to be any classical thinking when I read contemporary poets, everything is, well, contemporary, and usually the poem seems to be art-therapy of some sort for the poet, not the reader.

Art to be art must be classical. One more poem about the dead uncle's hat found in the closet and...nothing.
Contemporary becomes classical? Oh, sure, but what level are we on? Let's stay on a high level. Class struggles, religious wars, and culture inequities are not of raised consciousness. Classical essence is to create how the future can be considered and seen, not how the past or present is considered or seen.

When you write, write for the future. If I said this before here, sorry.