The world is a big toy. Wherever the world goes, people kick it around, and think there are many more toys at the store.

10 years. Or 8.

Long time no see. Or anything. Eight years? Well, well. I've almost forgotten about this old blog thing with google.

Everyone's life changes a lot every 10 years. I think every person is almost a another new person every 10 years. I never thought I'd be where I am now, and so forth, no doubt much like you, reading this, if anyone does read this.

thomasjardine.com is the better place to see info. I've been making poetry videos. Lots of fun.

Here is a photo because I don't know what else to say right now.

Looking for you.

What do you do when you have a great secret?
You keep it secret, right?

Eternity is a long time.

The man in the picture is not me.

He is looking for you.

People like sunsets. People like to look at sunsets together. Every sunset is a sort of dawn to other people on the other side of the earth. All we have are moments. And nice people. I certainly had to stop and take this picture.

A picture of the old Alamo in San Antonio, TX

John Keats. Death Mask. Always drop judgement from your world. Who are you to judge? Well, we all need to judge. But just to cause a ruffle: who could possibly stand up and yell, hey, this picture couldn't possibly be a poet!? Certainly looks like a poet to me. Do you look like a poet?

Beware the searchers, trust only the finders.

This is a funny "old style" picture, the static, wistful, balanced green on both sides, found as is, subtle interior window light and tiny frame on the other side of the building. An easy picture to take, but still fun.

Some people change and some people don't.

A vacation to me is to go where there are no crowds; not desolation, a few people, but never where I have to stand in line.

And when I write, I never write to belong: most people write to belong, they are belongers, they must belong, they wear t-shirts with designs, logos, ads. They "express themselves" Facebook.

A landmark in Ruidoso, NM, and I don't know the story behind the bike. But we don't often see a bike in the snow.

A bike in the snow, chained to the sidewalk, not free.

Which objects attract us is endlessly interesting. Half of beauty is order. Does anyone make the effort to see what you see? Hell, sometimes you can't give beauty away.

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.

In the poetry world, is it best to speak what you think of others, or to hold your tongue? If you criticize, you will draw fire, which in effect is to think things and keep thoughts to yourself. If enough people don't speak up, the mob rules, and certainly the mob rules in poetry. Just read the last few issues of Poetry, the magazine. Utter nonsense. Apparently it isn't politically correct to be negative to other's work: it is their work, therefore it is fine. Maybe there is wisdom in this. Creative people can just go forward, developing as they go, but then do they hear the truth? If truth is not presented, can any endeavor be true?

What is true and so forth, an endless nothing. Maybe people just don't want to hear the truth, especially poets, who are great illusionists at defending their own lies with pride, ego, as they scribble nonsense over and over.

Damn fake flowers. So many fake flowers.

If art does not inspire, it is nothing. Forget the art itself: do you walk away feeling inspired? This feeling of inspiration is the goal, the offering.

Sitting and doing nothing, waiting for the light to change, always beauty.