Hamlet, climb the fort
Looking for Shakespeare to come
And edit your soul

“When a Russian cosmonaut returned from space and reported that he had not found God, C. S. Lewis responded that this was like Hamlet going into the attic of his castle and looking for Shakespeare.” –Timothy Keller, The Reason for God (New York: Dutton, 2008), 122.


Give to me music
So I can make it real
And play it for you.



"Cool head, agile mind";
And that fragile train of thought
vanishes within

Sneak Peak

That which you are not,
I see it, I know it too:
Who you really are


090 → Forgive and Forget

It's a long process
More than what meets our plain eyes
Saying "I forgive you".


089 → Writers' Yield

Ideas back and forth
Come to a peacefully end:
Final yielding thought.


088 → Zero Sum

All buyers beware:
He who buys it all and naught
Spends but ends even.


087 → Sailing

Dwelling overseas
Steering, dodging--wondering
Why we came along


086 → Consciousness

That little voice --
Whispering, confrontating
'Till truth comes to terms


085 → Finding You

Thunder, earthquake, flames
but rather whisper within:
beat of my heart.

In this Sargasso Sea of fantasy and fraud, how can I or anyone else hope to swim unencumbered? How can I learn to see through, not with the eye? Take off my own motley, wash away the makeup, raise the iron shutter, put out the studio lights, silence the sound effects and put the camera to sleep? Watch the sun rise on Sunset Boulevard, and set over Forest Lawn?

Find furniture in the studio props, silence in a discotheque, love in a strip tease? Read truth off an auto cue, catch it on a screen, chase it on the wings of muzak? View it in living color with the news, hear it in living sound along the motorways? Not in the wind that rent the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks; not in the earthquake that followed, nor in the fire that followed the earthquake. In a still, small voice. Not in the screeching of tires, either, or in the grinding of brakes; nor in the roar of jets or the whistle of sirens, or the howl of trombones, or the rattle of drums, or the chanting of demo voices. Again, that still, small voice - if one could catch it.

--Malcolm Muggeridge, The Green Stick: A Chronicle of Wasted Years.