A Day in the Life of Chaos

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

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