That guy

He’s one of those people that interrupts at the perfect time. Every time. Like tonight. I was about to get ready for this annual New Year’s fondue party my parents host. Every year. That’s what annual means. Like tonight. He’s got this really strange ability to say the right words, with precise diction and limited syllables. And he makes me think. Often more than I want to. Not normally because he wants to. But somehow always on purpose. Not necessarily his purpose. Or my purpose. But on purpose. He points out those things that creep in the corners. He makes them real. He reminds me what’s worth seeing as real. That it isn’t all. That the important things are. And those ones lurk the most. He’s got faith. Shaky. But the shakes help it grow. It’s roots have been built up. With all his shaking they have to be. And the tree above. It’s more beautiful than most. Unconventional. Skinny. Clear. Beautiful. It interrupts skylines and obstruct the sunset view. But it constantly reminds that being grounded like a shadow is the way we were meant to move. 

Poets

Mother bird

Do you hear me,

Faint, delicate, warmth-giving Mother Bird?

Do not grow weary

Spread your wings and invite them in

To the shelter of your feathers

These tools to fly by and cover

To dip

To saturate

In the ink-blood of the churning puddles you stumble on in life

Those wings to lift them safety and pull them to your side

With a gentle violence more difficult to understand than peace

Because that’s what you deliver always.

Mother Bird

Do you understand me,

Beautiful, dancing, breath-giving Mother Bird?

Do not grow complacent

From limb to limb jump higher than you want

To the spaces no one

Will inhabit without your light

Paint into masterpieces your heart

With your heat

With your words

Move your feet to the sounds

It doesn’t matter which ones, for we all hear enough

Without care but with great deliberation move always.

Mother Bird

Great story teller, healer, tribe-keeper

Do not grow faint.

With your head high, but low enough to always see

How close you truly are to the ground,

Proclaim your existence

With the song from your beak and

The flowing ink from your wing

Proclaim your existence

No matter how much the frozen tundra of winter groans

Or the scorching heat of summer land moans

Dwell in the air

Watch the cycles of life repeat and soar over

Circling with your grace

Knowing the ice only aches as it expands and

The growing pains of the field are written as a symphony for you.

Oasis

You’re wrong.

It’s okay

I promise

The inverse of right is positive

For thinking and

Growing the helpful inch by inch

You don’t know.

That isn’t a problem

I swear

This uncertainty doesn’t mean

You won’t find peace

Somewhere at the end when you lay

This sprint is wearing you out

Find the needed oasis

Of the corner Walgreens in the

Middle of this midnight monsoon

Stop running the block

Searching from stop light

To stop light and

Let those cramping legs and

That fast beating heart

Breathe.

Waste

Your mind might be spinning and

Your voice trembling

Your heart may be racing and

Your left foot aching

But love,
Let me share this one simple fact:

You are not crazier today than you were yesterday.

That same mind will keep turning

It’s wheels pushing and pulling

That voice ringing loud above

It’s vibrato eloquent and present

That heart pounding pounding pounding

It’s blood filling you and everyone you meet

That foot pulsing with feeling to remind you

It’s there to keep you from getting too comfortable

Too many words repeating themselves

Always to say the same thing

You are as messy as the rest

As cracked as the first

And as confused as I am.

And let it be known that your craziness will be constant

Until you become complacent

And I would probably stop talking to you if that happened.

You’re too interesting and

Wonderful for your soul to rest.

Higher(than you)

Suspension.
In limbo.
Puppet on a string.
Attached in the air.
Movement with restricted Freedom.

Shrink the Spinning

The sudden lack of motion is astonishing

No longer fleeing or striving to achieve some

Goals of rescue and arrival

Stationary

For now.

It comes in through my nose and with an

Outward stretch I feel the fill

Refreshing from the too heavy

Contracting lungs the night before

In and through because of conscious effort to

Keep my eyes open

My heart thumping and

Mind wheels turning.

Perhaps more like spinning

Thinking of your beard and your laugh

Your words here floating in this late

Monday night bar poetry

Your lyrical stories of

Friends suffering through AIDS and

Millionaire hipster real estate

Cutting the world down.

We work to condense it into

Something small enough to fit here and

Let us touch

Shrink it into a

Private luminosity from

Left-over Halloween lights and

The warmth sustains.

82708

Throw the television off the train

These tracks going where few

Dare to venture alone

Through fields and plains

Colored with the tide

Winds moving the orange and red

Bare branches push up up

Sticks once bearing life, now

Only their core with variety

Skinny arms reaching to rid of

Too many other skinny arms

And wrists and hands

Crowded around in the

Rust gathering fields of steel

Power lines along side

Run in up and down waves

On a corresponding journey to life

The curves float as

Motion gathering momentum

With each cusp

It’s time to go home

Track 22 promises to take us there

To a place where smells and places

Familiar to greet and

Space for straightening question mark out into

Confident exclamation

Trails of feelings laced from

Here to the same places these

Veins and roots go deep

Trails like those of streets

Defining a new life source

With radical speed and

Revolutionary ideas

Learning to grow in revolutionary patience

I’m scared

Maybe even terrified

Mostly worried

A bit freaked out

Because I can’t see it

The leaves are changing

From top to bottom

A mismatched metamorphosis

Black sky blending to purple treetops

Down to the orange and

Green melting

Toward the grass

Painted gravity

The smell and the sights

Comfort and overwhelm

Familiarity out of context

Discontent from what once made me full
A vision for what was lovely

Beautiful and true

Shadowed and transformed

Beyond recognition

Dialects and faces

Different forms of the same

Medium in extremes

Disguising the language

I’m tired of searching

The exploration has left me empty

Unsure of where to rest

To be

Settling down like the pieces of

Color falling

Trampled and damp from

Evening motion tossing me now

Where will I find it?

This changing season

Changing much more           

Than temperature and time

What is Left

Smiling down the sidewalk
Bright blue above the black and
Pink skirt flowing.
Right now in one of those
Times I feel like
I must be a secret 5 year old.

But footsteps,
I hear the falls.
The tread of my boots beating
Resounding against the concrete
Foundation upon which I stand.

Feeling now I'm really 50.
With the sores and pains and
Heart that has seen so much and
Felt a whole lot.

Enough that I want only
To tear it out and
Burst it open for all the
Love to be expelled and
Felt a whole lot.

These times and these lives
Blessed by our footsteps.
Let's leave them and a whole
Lot more.
Let's leave out hearts
Our hands
Our minds.

Let us work so hard that in
The end it would have mattered
As our footfalls pierce the quiet
Busy streets.

Idle Here

All these spaces
Running up and down
Back and forth
Sideways and frontways.

Flowing in and out of each other
Stretching like time
Becoming and staying
Changing like the generations that
Call between the lines and
Ask what made them stay.

Our town for now
To own it and shape it
To flow around it or
Redirect the direction all the way.
From here sitting and knowing the floor.

Moving fast east.
The reflections shine in the plastic spaces,
Sometimes showing through to see faces.
Color so many.
Souls shown times beyond.
Busy working bodies.
Not idle, but here that.
Bodies tired.
Mouths unresting.
Serving the place where seats and
Air-conditioned metallic compartments hold them.
Next stop

Second Row Angel

Zombie-eyed stare
At the back of your figure
Hair tousled by the wind and
Hours of sleep
or lack thereof
Brown strands of interrupted grace
Highlighted with golden pieces throughout
Wildly untamed, jazzily teasing my ear.

Beautiful hot pink
Laced up bodice
On thin frame
Please come unplugged
Be here to talk and
Share you stories
The extent to which.
List them like the lace
Wear them with pride and some sass.

Shadowed eyes veiled behind
Laquered lashes.
Hiding behind what you don't know
Feel it and let it think.
Clarify your chaos from the
Laced lace pieces that
Bind your heart to your front
Keep it close and slowly
Unwind with pen.

Start.

Miniature morning cobblestone.
Matte tiles to greet me.
Stumbling from Saturday night daze to
Here in Sunday morning light.
The thin cracks grey fill and press.
Bottoms of my chill feet touch.
Ground to commence the day.
Path to sink and new time.
Foggy mirrors above still cloudy
My unfocused tired gaze.
Start.

Children Fest

Beating drums with lives beating here tonight.
Too much beating for the sky.
It gets covered up and doesn't want to show its light.
Gleaming shining faces under white tents stained in the right.
Part and chanting syncopation.
German pants for two tickets.
Why are there children here?
Little innocence.
Muffled faces trying not to beat so much.

Wake

Carrying the dog like a child.
Asserting your dominance over that creation
Like your ancestors were
Trained specifically to do.
Fathers before you
Trying to control and gain the confidence.

Passing by the corner hour after hour.
You stay there still
Letting that channel of smoke billow out
Swirling in your wake and
Thrown by the wind
On this blustery afternoon.

hours

The golden hour.
I've never heard of that phrase
Til you uttered it now.
Perfect words for the picture
Light below that spreads
From buildings to windows
Shining in pure yellow glory.
This city on fire from a
Day of life moving through streets
Hearts shine as it
Reminds us the sun will be back in a few hours.

Dizzy

Before our time here is over
I beg you to see the universe how
The creator made it to be experienced.

Search for the moment, the place, the expanse
Where you cannot come close to
Comprehending the vastness and the beauty of
What is before you.

The number of small white lights
Too enormous for you to distinguish each alone
Combining into a masterpiece so awesome
It literally blows your mind.

Nothing above you makes sense
Yet you have an overwhelming comprehension.
The spectacular nature of
Who you were made to reflect.

room

I sit up in
It is still
Sweaty sweating
This enclosed face with the wind faltering
Like the sound that is falling
Up as it's bouncing from pane to pane
To the floor I'm above now.

Alone here thinking
Pondering you and you and even a
Little consideration for you too
Where I really wish
You would be thinking too
In words and movement
Enough to break it
Crash the still night

Slash the colors you store
Being an imitation of the crazy
Exploding spirit that implores
One purple flower growing tall in the
Big beige bush on the north side of our
Communally constructed streets
Built to be inhabited

We shy from the humanity of it
Stolen away we lock
Into dim rooms with
Too many pieces of furniture
Strewn clothing covering
Stained-aged carpet.
Placed for warmth in a place
Interrupted by slamming doors

Pushed and pulled
From me to you and you
Books ask for my eyes
Mind doesn't go there and words
Mean things more than what I should
Try to learn
From opening and looking
Up on the eighth floor.

Boarding

Oh glorious day of sun and shining.
In this city of fences to block
Gates that lock
Closed fortress walls behind
Where they hide

Fear and comfort with the security that's constructed
Made to be connected from
Th separation that doesn't quite
Make sense.
If we stop to see the colors.

Bright walls
Mosaic bridges
A kaleidoscope of doors, storefronts, and ads
Clustering familiarity
Helping us hope.

That hope cuts through fences and
Knocks over walls.
Where in this city we are unified.

The splendor of the sun and blue
Paling when compared to the
Sparkling stars and water that we
Experienced upon boarding.
Climbing and finding a view.

That's where I met you
Sitting in the wind of the city and
The glow of a checkered skyline
Talking on the edge
Baring huge smiles and
Giddy with excitement for who
We could become as
We explored who we are.

Morning

The morning air meets my freshly pounded face.
Waking up is normally an unpleasant experience of
My body feeling like it's been contorted to strange shapes
Positions of uncomfortable sleep
A circus act of my dream space with an
Inflexible performance on the tight rope of the
Hours from 1 am til now.

This morning I don't feel like I fell
The smell and the sounds actually refresh
A breeze persuades my drapes to dance and
The chirping of a few high flyers orchestrates
The sky still dim
Letting the sun ease through the clouds
The air chill, reminding of the ability I have to feel.

Time for things to change
Societies rules are about to take over again
The season of play and reunion moving out
With that wind.
The leaves will no longer glimmer green,
But a gold glow will fill
Their place on the branches sprawling to cover.

Hi

I don't know what to do about this feeling
You know, that one
When I feel the compelling sense to
reach out and
Touch.
When you are near me and
cute enough for me to have that
strange urge to grab you around that
thin waist and pull you tight..
To wrap myself around you and
for you to return the squeeze.
It'd feel so right,
To stand or sit or lay
Cuddled together
Comfortable in your long arms.
To have your dark face turned toward me.
Those strong features not
too interested in mine.
Since you don't care much,
my little heart will hide and
I'll simply say "Hi".

dim

Flying low
Slowing hover,
As if to request a catch.
Asking to be held.

Knowing a faster speed would
Give less illumination
Patiently showing the light from their creation
Taking a pace for those watching to see.

Not racing but waiting,
Full of brilliant shine.
Pieces of yellow glow
Scattered to guide the
Ones without lights
To add definition to the dusk.

I Should Do my Laundry

Boom
drip
drip
Boom
drip
drip
Boom
Wake up call with natural
Alarm inside helped by the
beat.
Dim light early dawn beat box
Beckoning the day
With the
Drizzle and pound.

sore throat

My voice.
I've got one.
yeah
Normally loud
Sometimes obnoxious
Probably in your way.

My voice.
I'll sing with it
Chatter too much with it
Play with it
Think through it
Speak from it.

It scratches the air like the claws of that calico cat
Pawing on the window to break though
Into here
Houses waiting to be filled with voice.

I don't like how it sounds
I don't want you to hear the
Mistakes so often made
But hey.
I can still make noises

I'll take some responsibility upon
This heart of mine
This throat
These vocal chords.
They'll do what they can
Though it'll probably hurt a bit
By Friday night when I have time to
Finally think about it.

Fringerprints

Our fingerprints don't fade. There is gravity in that fact. Gravity that weighs upon my mind and my back and my heart and my fingertips. Everything in the earth revolves in a cycle of death, then eventual life, then age, then death again. Friction fades and entropy pulls apart. Wind and dirt rub away mountain tops and water washes over tree barks. The life of plants may regenerate, but not individually. There is nothing permanent in the grass or the clouds. Yet, our bodies, as breakable as they are, and our skin, as prone to scrapes as it is, do not fade. We can touch and move as much as we want, and out surface remains. And even more, we can leave a mark.

Our fingerprints stick. That is the splendor of touch. We can do it in peace or in violence over and over and over and never physically lose our ability to do it some more. Our voices can fade, as mine has over the past couple weeks, and though our bodies might grow tired, our presence can be powerful.

Let those fingerprints flow from hands that work and do. Leave some marks, and have hope they won't fade. You were made with this ability and with this purpose of the human touch. To comfort and love in that contact and connection. The touch.

Let it Fall

Washing away all that was here from today.
All the dirt,
all the grime,
all the pain.
Let it fall off and run down.
Drains the overflowing leftovers
only to leave the
Pure and sparse,
More beautiful than anything most of us
Have ever conceived.

Sit rocking on the deck
Lost in the novel telling
Stories to yourself
Dreaming under the glow of
How you will someday glow
As you are tossed by the
Breeze into the
Shade of green grace

4 x 5

Cut it and dice it
4 x 5 Pop-tart grid
Pieces apart in perfect proportion
Eating your chart from the
Sprinkled sprinkles on top

This morning listening to your pop
From the toaster you lit up
What a messed up way to start the morning
Convenience in plastic wrap
4 x 5 Pop-tart grid

Crunch up Melancholy Hill
The place we all should go when we feel like
This torn inside beating thing
Not sure muscle
Strong still, pulling

Collect the crumbs one by one
On your fingertips
That were made to feel even when your
Melancholy soul doesn’t want to
With the bending morning sun coming.

Jump

Jumping on the stretched clack of an island
Trampoline in a sea.
The sun masked by reaching
Branches with glowing leaves
Rising from the waves.
Water grass waves
Rolling and blowing over
Hills and high tides.
In the high times of
Summer sun to soak the earth and
The faces of its children.
Finding solace in the afternoon
Oasis as the grass
Bends beyond its break.

A Shell

Sitting inside clinging to a moist clammy blanket.
Pass the pillow,
Crammed against the glass.

Expectations of a chill brisk surface hit
Skin with heat.

Breaking breaking breaking
Drip.

Yellow light of the far away shed.
Not so far but through the stretch
from here to

There a terrible sea of green
Thrashing and swirling in waves.
Puddles collecting in the sky.

Beating beating beating.

Flashing lights of crash come from our box and
Through the sky.
Grey wool stretched to scratch the surface and
Make it spill.

If you watch,
see the glow of the sky at night
Though it's merely afternoon.
Noon dusk of the storm.

this one

There is a void in the middle of my chest
A spot longing to be covered and filled
with you.

You’ll find it close to the thump of
Palpitating muscle stationed above
My ribcage.

The beats go out and on
To beckon you,
A song searching with
A ballad serving as
A melody with notes reaching far.

But not far enough I’m afraid.
You can’t hear the cadence of
Feel the movement against my skin.

I’ll sit here cuddled up
In this dim office chair,
Grasping my arms to my core
Trying to hold some feeling
To keep the tingling memory from fleeing.

Trembling with fear and
dearly uncertain.

The Surrealists of Soul

Oh, the smell of the Great American Garage Sale.
The scent of the Salvation Armies and Good Wills, antique stores,
Grandma’s basement and secondhand “boutiques”
The molecules of dust and time filling the air
Into my nostrils,
Telling my brain where I am.

It’s the odor of history and pride.
An war medal all rusty from where it hung for 37 years above the tool bench.
The guitar from the ages when Jimi was the king of those strings, whose owner only wanted to play like that god of rock.
Shelves of book s with their pages deteriorating from fingers,
Thousands of fingers that touched the binding and felt the words.
A tea cup brought from China before the fall of the empire.

Why did I come to look and sift through all this?
This stuff.
Junk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Steve or Uncle Robert of the rock and roll.
I didn’t write those books, but they are now part of my library
And I drink tea from China each afternoon.

This is the crap that keeps America going
The fuel from our houses and crawl spaces.
The blood and sweat that mixes with the dirt that settles on the ancient embroidered Christmas tree skirt that comes out once a year.
The pain that once got them through
Now pushes us

That’s why we collect and keep.
We gather
To tell ourselves that those piles around us have meaning.
To show that though we don’t have much
Much money
Much character or
Much future
Well, we’ve got much stuff.

We fill our attics and
Kitchens and backyard sheds
With things to define out
History and our space.

The colors and flecks of metal and skin
Accumulate behind doors and behind our
Faces
We’ve got some of those too.

The antique shops in the strip malls through the American mid-west
Sell pictures
So we can have faces for the stuff we’ve got
To know who it came from and to
Make up stories about how it came to us.

It’s entertainment for purpose
To find where we came from
But really, all we’ve done is hide
Behind the material
Behind the doors.

Unsure of how we got here
Clueless about where we’re going.

beat

Sometimes, when I get like this
I just have to speak to
Write it down and
Walk it out.

They flow in and through and out
Around and from
My soul and being to
Tongue and meaning
Marching out of the gates of white teeth in my closing door of mouth.

Moving and passing.
Like the trees that go past on this
Treadmill of trail.
My arms propel the leaves and branches past.

This dirt beneath a repetition of
Things that were and
Up ahead the unveiling branches
Illuminate the things to come.

The cars and roads and tracks that take us and
Break us.
Beyond what were to a new and
Transformed you.

A hand past my face looks like the same
Holding up your heart that you tried
So hard to glue in place
Though they kept pulling and tearing it
Out to hit your you.

This dirt full of dust
Made of the men who came out of such ground.
To teach you and me the things
We'll learn to be.

As we go in and out and by and down
The slopes to the river
Where we can sit and enjoy
Joy.
To be clothed in the peace of joy
Found on the trail of this pain;.

It may seem like monotonous minuted of movement
Like the branches and green only slide
Past and your effort is a little pointless
But no.
yes.
You are going.
This heart will soon stay attached.

Rock On

A boy at the library
Facing shelves and shelves of books
Books
books
boookS
Reading and browsing
Title after title.
He turns
Off the record.

I wrote a folk song about Irving Berlin
A little jazz rock
Bee bop
Different than your pop rock or thump thump
Boom pow.
June blues about who's Who.

In the library
with the beep beep
creak creeeeak
More books and songs and
He's still there
Browsing and reading
Title after title.

But I know that off the record secret.
An un-produced cut
Song he wrote
just between us
The secrets of folk in the library.

Becoming

by Kami Andridge


This is for the creators.
This is for the dreamers.
This is for the crack whore living 3 blocks over.
This is for your mom.
This is for the ragamuffins and the wanderers.
This is for you.

Be.

This is for the kid with nowhere to go.
He doesn’t have a worry or a home.
He sits and things and dreams.
He watches movies and plays video games and plays music music music.
He takes drugs to find himself,
to improve himself,
to ignore himself.
To be.

This is for the student living off ramen and those Frosted Cheerios.
The one learning what real life is and what still lives are.
He questions
Is this real?
and
Why is this so still?
He learns to revel in beauty,
to search for form,
to pause for joy.
He lives to be.

We’ll all be someday.
Be something.
Be somewhere.
Be someone.
Nothing?
Some say that is still something.

Be.
Loud and obnoxious.
Brave and courageous.
Be beautiful and strong.


With that quiet voice and gentle soul be imaginative.
Be questioning.
Be a rebel.
Be a lover.
Be a revolutionary.
Be a starving artist living in a
run down studio apartment who doesn’t care because it is
so simple and still and wonderful.

Be a 5 year old with a
64 pack of Crayola Crayons and an afternoon in an
empty white room.

Be the next social reformer.
Be the next super model or
the next super star rock ‘n roller.

Be.

Be whatever.
Be something.
Be nothing.
Be brilliant and let your soul shine.
Be, and know that
You have been, you are, and you will become.

The Water Dealio

yes, "dealio" is a word.

This 40 Days of Water Challenge has been just that, a challenge. It's been almost three weeks, and I miss drinking my coffee and tea. Tea. Yum.

I feel like the water has been good for me though. No caffeine was weird to get used to, but now the constant hydration has kicked in and I get just as much energy from that. It's recommended that an active female drinks 72 ounces of fluids a day. That sounds a little ridiculous, but drinking only water, all the time (which I've found myself doing) reaches that goal.

Here are some dietary benefits of a lot of water

and some more

I don't know how legitimate some of these claims are, but I can for sure tell you that I've had way less head aches and chapped lips are not an issue.


If you don't have a reusable water bottle, GET ONE!!!!! The amount of plastic wasted every day in this country is ridiculous. Nalgene bottles are great (full up your 32oz. twice and you're golden), as well as SIGG if you want something trendy and aluminum.

Drink on!

40 Days of Water

"The needs are great, and none of us, including me, ever do great things. But we can all do small things, with great love, and together we can do something wonderful.” -Mother Teresa

2 weeks of no pop, coffee, milk, tea, or juice can provide someone in Africa enough clean water for the rest of their life. How? By giving the money you would have spent on these beverages to Blood:Water Mission.

The 40 Days of Water Challenge starts tomorrow, Feb. 17^th. Start with a 2 week goal. Give up all the extraneous drink you have easy access to on a daily basis living in the U.S. and donate the money you save to help people who have no water. The Challenge runs from February 17 – April 3. This is also the duration of Lent, so if you are spurred to make this a part of your fasting, this is a great opportunity.

Water: simple, boring water that we take advantage of everyday. Celebrate the water we have on tap, ready for us to drink, to clean with, and to waste. Sacrifice for people in Africa who need your help.

Collect money on your own and send it to Blood:Water, or get it to Kami Andridge if you live in/around Midland and she will make one mass donation on behalf of the community and students of Mid-Michigan.

Join the Facebook group!

Blood:Water Mission is an organization that works with communities in Africa that struggle from HIV/AIDS and a lack of sanitary water. They work to transform the lives and hearts of people from the inside-out. Each situation is unique and nothing is ever a hand out. BWM teaches the communities they work with to embrace hard work and to understand their potential and ability to rise above poverty.

Blood:Water 40 Days of Water

Beautiful Form

"Once upon a time, I wanted to know what love was. Love is there if you want it to be. You just have to see that it's wrapped in beauty and hidden away in between the seconds of your life. If you don't stop for a minute, you might miss it."

I recently watched a cute film with a simple plot and a fantastic script called "Cashback". The story is about an art student named Ben who breaks up with his girlfriend of a year and a half, and develops horrible insomnia. To use his newly found time in his best interest, he picks up the night shift at a grocery store. Ben is infatuated with the form of the female body and he freezes time to observe and enjoy it. Eventually, he finds love in these frozen moments where he is the only one looking for beauty, and he can sleep again.

One revealing (if you've seen it, no pun intended), or self-revealing, moment of the movie is when Ben is talking about a woman whose secret fantasy is to be loved by an artist. "She thought he would really see her. He would see every curve, every line, every indentation and love them because they were part of the beauty that made her unique."

It is something I've thought about for the past couple years, so to hear it vocalized and portrayed in such a heart-felt story was beautiful. To have someone who finds innate beauty in my body, in my face, in my soul simply because that is what makes me a special masterpiece to be observed and discovered is a fabulous idea. I hope to someday fall in love with an artist, a man who looks for the beauty of this world and finds it in the lines and curves.

lack of humility

Starting today, I am going to make a conscious effort to significantly reduce the number of tweets I make. My parents are I were discussing last night how Twitter is a service to focus on "me, me, me". It is not a bad thing, not at all. People wouldn't follow your updates or respond to them occasionally if they did not want to hear about your actions or opinions.

The fact that I am now thinking about it is why I am going to back off. I don't think I want people to always know that much about "me, me, me". Maybe it will let me get more into this blogging thing too. Twitter has become my normal output of random thoughts and poetic verse, but without that I may just turn to this good ol' blog...which no one follows.

I've considered it a goal in my life to live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly...and if those I love think that my use of Twitter hasn't let me do a very good job of the "walk humbly" business, I am going to do something to change that.

Peace :)