A bit early Spring……

A bit early Spring…….

Just another day in the week of a month where Spring arrived several full fortnights in advance of Mother Nature’s typical cycle. Sitting down @the desktop I’m wondering what will follow months from today.  Will August arrive as a September and so forth. A second observation of question is will this summer in North America be warmer than the previous?  Summer of 2011 was warm and hot in a long and abundant sense rather than something to spike the thermometer daily and nightly. Previous to March the tornado sirens have already show they work when needed, and the season will last for months to come.

Hit the stand-by of WMP for a load of Allman Brothers to spur the imagination. Vintage and still relevant their first album entitled, “The Allman Brothers Band”. The opening cover of Spencer Davis’s Don’t Want You No More, is still as fresh and sonic as it was the day my sister brought me home a copy, it stayed on my record player for years. It was 1969.  On the subject, Gregg Allman has a book coming out just about now.  Having survived the decades as an artist, a “Rock-Star’, and the liver transplant this may be a worthy read……..available May Day 2012. “ My Cross to Bear”.

On the moving forward side, a company named C. W. Matthews began clearing the woods in front of the house here as construction begins on removing my street and replacing it with a different one. I’ve spent most of my life in this area and still this is a first. The city purchased all the homes on 27 acres in town, removed the structures. My home is at the east side of the development. My street is being removed, ok?  Quarter of a mile south of me a roundabout will be installed and the road will angle north in front of my home, end with a traffic signal a hundred yards away with a left or right turn.  The old road way will be taken up leaving a contiguous parcel of 28 acres of land. Upon which will be a park, a library and a city courthouse. All this is done with approval of the citizens of Alpharetta, 29million dollar bond, voted and affirmed. I have no clue what is going on, except I am the host to triple the number of squirrels I had a few weeks past.  New squirrel condos in abundance now..Lastly the parcel of land to be a public park was named March 26th . Brooke Street Park. When the road is finished and the park completed, Brooke Street will no long exist. I do like the name but it makes me sad to loose my street.

Looking south, new road approaching, will Over-lay Brooke Street in picture and continue about another 100 yards north @best to end at traffic light.

Thus a rather large chapter in my life is ending. Could it be akin to a relationship that has concluded and if so how is the end written?  The thought of the chapter being linked to a death of a partner is repulsive, saying the least. Attempting to name the change a formal separation will not work. Separation is not final and this is and it is written in stone. The street Brooke will no longer exist, the name will. A divorce may be the ultimate descriptive word, or best names the chapter. Yet the ‘D’ word has a weakness to simply name the chapter thus.

In Malaysia are a tribe, few in numbers still alive and well living up rivers in a communal fashion, as they have for thousands of years. Living with some modern convinces of necessity, sparse radios for communication and motors on the boats and canned beer.  The tribe still maintains a tradition of life. Many of the men of the community have left never to return, others have served proudly in Malaysian military. Mostly know for their brutal yet skilful removal of the communist from the country in the 1950’s.  Their tradition is called ‘Journeyman”. And it is a lifestyle.

A young man is encouraged to leave the village. Gather experience in life; bring something back to the village and repeat. Rather open-ended as the cycle may be repeated for their entire life.  Just maybe the loss of my street and its name, left only to the park, is a Journeyman. No shingle will be hung now of a life-time craft. Just Journeyman.

Got a few more thoughts there and about. The most nagging one is,” Go outside and wash the car”, it is covered in a very thick layer of yellow pollen. If your not born and raised in this area of the country, the pollen has the tendency to cause ones head to swell, the eyes to water, the nose to spew and a unceasing pressure in the forehead. Resulting in misery of the highest order.  Turning 57 on the 27th of March and repeat to myself the mantra I have for 35 years.  “ Where will I be in a year?”    McTell…




Debate will continue…..

I’ve never imagined myself a writer, nor a idealist. I’ve founds on the creative side mostly visual and physical success. Business in the craft of acting, motions, juggling the simplest forms of scene stealing short of just chewing gum. But alas no actor am I, but in the long run of life, and I lay claim here, with a chuckle. Myself finds the craft of directing thru line, texture or form, includes everyday life, indeed. The entrance of my home directs one towards a sitting area of entertainment or a ‘den’, of comfort and view of the out of doors. Hence I claim on the form of life, indeed follows the function and necessity.

Looking forward, if you will?? I’ve had a great blog idea or two and find no, absolutely no  compelling reason or inspiration to proceed. I feel not a lazy streak yet I do feel the need to be compelled, compelled by that great big mysterious force of nature or unature if there is such a word. A reason to ‘bevel’ in a justification beyond filling up the page with written word, not a cause nor justification. Me? I look for some universal need within me life to apply the ‘pen to paper’.

A city of east Georgia in the USA, has been the center of a notable writer from this state. If my memory serves me correctly he was originally from south of Atlanta, Georgia near Moreland, where more than one author of note was born and raised. The writer in my thoughts wrote of the last vestiges of indentured servitude in this state, of the sharecropper who could not give up his and his family’s life and the times and attitudes which bound these men and there families to the same cycle of life their fathers and fathers before them were bounds as chattel.

Oh how spring has risen here in me hometown a month early and no real winter upon us here, I would bear to say the weather has been cool, and cold, and even to chance we have been frozen at times of early mornings, but and but again there has been no seasonal waves of deep freeze and the timely percipient to aggravate transportation in the metro area. The most gorgeous of flowering plants, of Asian origin her in Georgia, the Azalea have bloomed in a most spastic way and continue to do so me thinks until April, while this is the seasonal time for the Japanese Magnolia, the arid blooming blossoms floating above the ground imitating pale lanterns of the foreground.

Rain on the way and the heavens have been generous this year around, with all the homes across the street from me finally removed, my view in the neighborhood has changed to being the front door of in-town Alpharetta, Georgia. Till later I’ll adjust and in-town will do the same. Guess I could always put up a sign and open a hotdog stand.

Camellia on the dinner table

Camellia on the dinner table

A Georgia Song, A Georgia Poet

SONG OF SENLIN (from “Senlin, A Biography“)

by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973) Poet Laureate of/from Georgia


IT is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning

When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,

I arise, I face the sunrise,

And do the things my fathers learned to do.

Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops

Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,

And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet

Stand before a glass and tie my tie.


Vine leaves tap my window,

Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,

The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree

Repeating three clear tones.


It is morning. I stand by the mirror

And tie my tie once more.

While waves far off in a pale rose twilight

Crash on a white sand shore.

I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:

How small and white my face!–

The green earth tilts through a sphere of air

And bathes in a flame of space.

There are houses hanging above the stars

And stars hung under a sea. . .

And a sun far off in a shell of silence

Dapples my walls for me. . .


It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning

Should I not pause in the light to remember God?

Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,

He is immense and lonely as a cloud.

I will dedicate this moment before my mirror

To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.

Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!

I will think of you as I descend the stair.


Vine leaves tap my window,

The snail-track shines on the stones,

Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree

Repeating two clear tones.


It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,

Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.

The walls are about me still as in the evening,

I am the same, and the same name still I keep.

The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,

The stars pale silently in a coral sky.

In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,

Unconcerned, I tie my tie.


There are horses neighing on far-off hills

Tossing their long white manes,

And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,

Their shoulders black with rains. . .


It is morning. I stand by the mirror

And surprise my soul once more;

The blue air rushes above my ceiling,

There are suns beneath my floor. . .


. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness

And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,

My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,

And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.

There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,

And a god among the stars; and I will go

Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak

And humming a tune I know. . .


Vine-leaves tap at the window,

Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,

The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree

Repeating three clear tones.

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