One Day

There’s a ghost selling memories down by the shore
as a jury decides its fate
there’s a man of religion knocking at my door
I need to lie down, he can wait.

My Own Best Friend

Stooping down and listless still
the rain, the pavement scarried
the men they took my food and oil
and all that I had carried

Wisdom Cries in the Street

Wisdom cries in the street
The humble rise to their feet
to kick their shoes off
before they hit the road

My Leaning Frame

I have no room on my leaning frame
The seed that’s planted, in the ground
I have no mind for what lays behind
I put no weight on what others find

"It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see."

– Henry David Thoreau

For those who do not feel the need to make sense of the world, it serves them well. For others, the poets, the writers, the artists, they tell their stories in an attempt to make some sense of the world they live in, if only for themselves. This, in small part, explains how art is born.

Find a quiet dark spot and listen to Beethoven’s 14th, the Moonlight Sonata, or, if ever you’re in Madrid, take a trip to the Museo Reina Sofia and look at Picasso’s Guernica, or pick up a copy of Camus’ The Stranger to get an idea. They were all composed as the artist was attempting to make sense of the world.

The writer may have come to their craft because they’ve realised that, at heart, they are outsiders, their immediate world is alien to them and they therefore need a method of expressing that alienation. Other endeavours act merely as weigh stations until the realisation hits, too late, that the time has come for them to try and talk themselves out of it.

For although everyone has a story to tell, not everyone has the facility to tell that story. Sometimes it’s given to others, knowing that the stories must be told, because we need them, subconsciously we know we need them, to sustain us.

What is certain is that while some are busy making the most of the world, there are others trying to make sense of it. What is also certain is that the talent being applied to this effort can overcome almost anything, even encouragement.

Words Worth Reading

Can I give you a lift?

I gave a friend a lift home from our support group meeting. He doesn’t drive, recovering as he is from his brain surgery. It was a good opportunity to catch up with him, hear news of treatment, of recovery progress, to share the odd anecdote, and complain about the traffic.

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When the Brain Tumour Screams

There are times, when viewed in the rear view mirror, when those moments of temporary crisis are upon us, when thought strings are tangled, when things spiral, when all we want is some small semblance of control.

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We live in a Political World

We live in a political world and as much as we might like to turn a blind eye to that fact, we can’t avoid it. You may wonder then, what has led me down this rabbit hole and enquire as to what politics has to do with having a brain tumour.

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Stories Worth Telling

My Mother Played Liszt

My mother played Liszt. Not the transposed for modern players Liszt but the original bastard’s manuscripts that he didn’t want women to play, or anyone else for that matter, so betoken was he to his own musical genius.

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Songs Worth Singing

Guess I'm Doing Fine

by Stephen Newman | The Lifestyle You Ordered

Great Australian Dream

by Stephen Newman | The Lifestyle You Ordered

Wisdom Cries in the Street

by Stephen Newman | The Lifestyle You Ordered

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