A Day in the Life of Chaos

There are two distinct forms of people in this world, the faithful and the skeptics.  Then there are a vast number that exists somewhere in-between.  I suppose I fall into this group yet my mind constantly tortures me. It asks me to ask questions, it asks me to doubt.  Relying on faith alone would be so much easier yet something deep inside of me reminds me that to do so would be to deny the very existence of my brain. Not far from my office in downtown Columbia, South Carolina there is a cemetery.  It is a mix of old and new graves that covers a large plot of land.  Often at lunch as a way of exercising I take a brisk 60 minute walk that often leads me to the winding paths, some mercifully shaded by tall trees.  For the most part I tune out the world as I walk by the graves with my iphone in hand and my ear buds in.  My eyes dance from one stone to the next reading the names and dates followed by a mental calculation of how long they lived.  Some names are so exotic, I wonder how th

Why do I do this?  I think it is a question many people might ask.  Why lay yourself out to the world? Why communicate your thoughts, fears and reservations?  Is it vanity?  Is it exhibitionism in a literary form? 1916 Journal The answers to these questions cannot be explained in a simple sentence or a thought.  They are more complex, more cryptic.   For me writing is my only creative outlet.  I am not artistic. I can't paint, draw, sing or play an instrument. I can't compose photographs and I am not good at math. I don't even have any party tricks. I can't make funny sounds from my stomach or turn my eyelid inside out.  About the only thing I can do is touch my tongue with the tip of my nose.  While it is helpful in cleaning the errant cream of a latte I don't think it classifies me as extraordinary.  There is one thing I can do and I think I do it fairly well.  I can word smith.  I can assemble little black shapes into a form that is descriptive and emotion

As we age bit by bit, soul by soul those that we know or better said that we knew go away.  Where they go is a subject for a different conversation.  Some will tell you heaven others will tell you dirt.  Truth be told these are philosophical questions much larger than my humble mind can ponder.  I can say that birth to life to death is a natural progression of organic life and it is only logical that those we cross paths with in life will at some point cease to exist.  While logical in the course of human events it still doesn't make the event any less painful. I don't understand what happens to some people when they grow old. Sometimes it seems like something changes in the mind.  I don't know if it is a way of compensating for the eventual reality or if it is a reflection of true emotions.  Perhaps this is one of the things that makes it so difficult.  In my life and family I have had considerable experience with this phenomenon. It started with a dysfunctional relation

Seventy some years ago my great uncle Bob who by all estimations was quite an eccentric man took a series of photographs of my great grandfather and a friend.  They were posed studio photographs and taken long before digital photography was ever conceived of.  I love these photographs for several reasons but foremost is the window into the playful side of my great grandfather's personality.  I have no idea why they chose monks but for a strange reason they always seemed perfect.  Another portrait from the same session was taken in a fisherman's weather hat and titled Cap'n Hart. It has yet to be recreated.  As the years pass memories fade.  Eventually one generation transcends the next and living memory ceases to exist.  The only thing that remains are the images of people who once walked our world yet long ago departed.  I love to look at these old photographs and wonder about the people.  Who were they?  What made them laugh and what made them cry?  Did they ever fall i