The Artist’s Way

I’ve recently been on an audio book binge. I never really liked audio books because I love highlighting things and writing in the margins of the pages of book. Granted, it’s rare that I ever go back to them and read the highlights, but I like that I have that option. 

This week I’ve been listening to The Artist’s Way. Besides its ultra hippie writing style and, how can i put this, femininity, I really like it. I’m actually attracted to ways of living that encompass such connectedness with self, inner self and spirituality. 

The book requires two things of the reader, Morning Pages and the Artist Dates. 

I started morning pages today and the first three lines were just, “F***”, over and over again. Frustrations run strong with this one, huh? The whole idea of morning pages is to free the clutter from your mind so that you can turn on your creativity like a tap. So, today I wrote well, my actually writing, I mean. I extended my concentration time and felt less stuck

Artists Dates is something I’ll post about later when I actually go on one. 

So, todays update; The writing is going well, but fears and frustrations are running high. I’ll just continue to work and see what happens. 

How are you all going? Have you read The Artist’s Way? 

Hearing Hearts

Once upon a calming sigh,
A gentle whisper flutters by,
Hidden just for one to know,
A secret code of hidden flow.

*

Sleeping deeply in myself

My heart knew not it’s parallel.

Never had a voice been heard

To wake it up without a stir.

*

Unveiled in a rapid beat,

My chest starts pounding rhythms sweet.

Not a choice to start to fall,

But an answer to it’s call.

*

A treasure trove of blinding light,

It wasn’t sought, it came in night

Such was the day without control,

I met the one my heart will hold

*

Written by Randall Evans.

*

I’m not done with this one, I’ll come back to it over the next few days. Comment below and let me know what’s going on in your world 🙂

Rain

It was a cold miserable morning. The weather’s ice cold winds melted into my bones, yet I hadn’t even left the house. The rain fell all night without any hint of a cozy undertone.

The city was crowded with dreamless faces and deathly stares. The shelters were shoulder to shoulder with slow moving pedestrians that were showered with heavy drops that ran down the sides of buildings.

A few drops of rains and the trains are in chaos.

I hate it. I’m not a winter person, so this is ridiculious. I had to cross the city in the blistering cold to drop off an broken camera lens. Well, not just any lens, a Canon 70-200mm. It was my favourite lens. My baby. My livelihood.

At Wynyard I push past police, army vets, and a long line of corporate stiffs who are waiting to get into some event that I couldn’t care less about. Here is a question Sydney, why is so much of this overpriced city dependent on sunny skies? I didn’t have an umbrella and I felt every drop of the miserable, dirty rain.

Soaking wet, unhappy and ready to face the music. I bring out my lens.

“I’ll test it on my camera.”

The man checks the lens. I didn’t want to force it on my camera, but he has no trouble.

“It’s a bit tight…”

I thought it was too tight. But tell me, how is it?

“It seems OK. You’re a lucky man.”

I put my renewed hope back into my bag and head back to the office. Back through the crowds of zig-zagging people. Back across the roads where the red man overstays his welcome.

An alarm is going off in a building. I wonder why they were evacuated? There was a camera crew across the road. It’s funny how they still use massive rigs.

It’s now 2:00.

I work until 5:00.

A link is sent to my messenger.

MAN STABBED IN THE BACK OF THE NECK OUTSIDE WYNYARD STATION

Right outside my office. Right when I went for a walk.

Suddenly my attitude changed. The cold is just cold. The rain is just rain.

You never know when it’s your time.

Life is precious.

And I love the rain.

Written by Randall Evans.

***

I’m trying to post everyday, please connect with me so we can support each other 🙂

Disjointed Desire

magical-surreal-illustrations-gor-morski-4-art-illustrations-circles-surrealism-illustrations.jpg

Law of nature,
And of time.
Mine is nothing,
In this life.

Vision in the season of depletion,
Incompletion’s my only foundation
Repletion of all but a reason.

Strife in man.
It’s here to stay;
I separate…
Emancipate…

Revealed by desire
Of a simple smile
No barrier between self and liar.

How to discipline this mind?
To stop the cycle that I hide,
Solve the puzzle in my soul.
Hold my hand… Make me whole.

This is The Vile Mint
Written By Randall Evans

 

Fashionable

It was a mid-morning start, which meant the traffic was a little lighter and the gangs of retirees were taking over the cafes. I pulled up next to a trendy family car – Upper middle class.

chatillon-car-graveyard-abandoned-cars-cemetery-belgium-fb

I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the left arm of the passenger.

The wrist was decorated with the cuffs of a women’s power suit and a gold bracelet that was probably purchased in 1993. The bony hand, barely visible through the window tint, was worn and stressed.

Why isn’t she at work? It’s past 10…

Why wasn’t this independent hand on the steering wheel?

She had probably just come from the doctors. An elbow so casually, so… tensely resting on the window could only mean bad news. Her husband, or dare I say, old friend who’s always loved her but never been able to crack through her tough exterior, had driven her for moral support.

He left his car at hers because she’d rather be dead being seen in his bomb.

What’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of that gold bracelet? It doesn’t impress me much. I wonder if she was rubbing it in her anxiety as the doctor told her the news.

I turn up the music in my car. I wonder if I do it to impress the retirees with amazing heavy metal.

The status symbol is too heavy. It becomes a chain… A metal chain that pulls her along.

What hit her the most in her appointment? The realisation that she’s going to die, or the realisation that she’d wasted her life.

The car, the chain, the suit, the nail polish…

The skin, the muscles, the bones…

The heart.

Let’s strip it all away.

She’s protecting herself. The little girl she once was… She was hurt by the world. So, she put on her armor. She wasn’t enough just being a shining light, a pure spirit. She needed to project and deflect. If she fails, and she will, it’s because of the suit, the chain, the car, the lack of skills… never because of who she is.

She’s not a failure… She’s not…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

 

Fashionable

 

Flashing Back

I feel these moments take us back
To remind us what our hearts now lack.
When we see familiar sights,
Somehow we feel the loss of light.

Screen Shot 2017-04-16 at 9.20.18 PM

Flashing back to happy days
My heart is stabbed as mind relays
What meanings were, and now, are seen
As nothing like they used to be.

Drifting clouds kissed warming rays
I watched it all within your gaze
But when I saw the sky today
All I felt was my dismay.

New meanings need to change my eyes
To force things out and say goodbye
What is it in myself that grasps
To beauty that was in the past?

I say it’s gone and done, it’s over.
But everything reminds me of her.
There is no path that I can see…
From my mind I try to flee.

Am I afraid of letting go?
Or is this merely candles glow?
Flickering on the walls within
Going out with what has been.

Time is changing all of me
Who is the me that soon will be?
I fear that I’ll no longer care
How the sun would light her hair.

Is it normal to move on?
To forget the past… Forget someone?
For who are we but broken hearts
Forever falling to the start…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

Only Your Happiness

I wish for you the happiness,
That I will never have,
For me, my love, I’m left alone.
Cold and in the black.

The shadows cover everything,
That you once saw as me.
The shadows cover everything,
And I can barely see.

One day we’ll meet by accident,
You’ll call me an old friend.
I’ll laugh and smile and play pretend,
My life is on the mend!

Yet, I sit alone… In the still blue night,
Convincing myself… it will be all right…

Written by Randall Evans

The Honest Poet Bleeds The Most

I can not wake,
I can not sleep.
This heart is heavy,
I am weak.

My eyes don’t see,
They only weep.
My love is gone,
And hope I seek.

What is this path you’ve given me?
Where brothers die and lovers flee?
The me inside has but one key,
And now I’m locked in misery.

I heard her pain as she cried out,
Her heart was broken in her shout.
I’ll take that with me ‘till I die.
As well as our last kiss goodbye.

I held her hand and made her mine,
Each day her eyes would light the sky.
My heart I handed in a box,
Without the thought that I’d be lost.

I’m drowning down in all my pain,
Fragmented self is barely sane.
A broken man, I am again,
Cold, alone, in the rain.

I heard your song, it broke me down.
My tears were falling to the ground.
Have mercy on this sinners heart
I need your love, I’m torn apart.

I know you put her in my sight,
To show me love and end the night.
But, now I’m here and no one knows,
Who I am, my inner woe.

Yet, I don’t care for happy days,
Just for her, to keep her safe.
I do not care if I decay,
Just be with her, that’s what I pray.

Written By Randall Evans

Funeral

_MG_5378

The bitterness of death swims in my blood.
But I can’t feel it.
There’s a dizzying warmth in the room,
Faces from the past share smiles that scream.

Walking beneath the waves, beneath the sea.
Someone took the wheel from me.
We all become part of the same organism.
And this monster is drowning but can never be drowned.

I’m a shell. An invisible shell.
Tear stained faces glance, but they’ll draw nothing from me.
I’m empty. I’m numb.
The memories haven’t died, he’s here somewhere. Somewhere…

In the corner of your eye you see him.
In the laugh of a stranger you hear him.
The flood gates of pain spill inside.
But I can’t feel it. I won’t feel it.

Why are you laughing?
Where has mine gone?
Why can’t I feel it?
Where are my tears?

Run from the room.
Hide in the corner.
In the darkness of your soul.
Don’t interact. Don’t let them steal anything from you.

Emotionless. Motionless.
It broke my friends.
They are broken like me.
Where is the light?

Death takes the invisible.
The eyes are empty.
The day ends with the taste of women’s tears and cheap perfume.
Please give me piece.

Put us back together.
Let us laugh. Let us cry.
I need to feel.
Was it really I who died ?

Please God!

I need to feel.

I need to feel.

– By Randall Evans.

I’m Sleeping With Someone Who Isn’t My Wife

I’m sleeping with someone who isn’t my wife.

Before you jump to conclusions, let me explain.

I’m going to go into detail about how beautiful she is. I’m going to express how she makes me feel and how i’d do anything for her.

And here is the anti-twist nobody saw coming.

‘She isn’t my wife, she is my life.’

Oh? You mean… You are sleeping with your wife… Oh I see.. It was your wife the whole time… Clever…

M. Night Shyamalan didn’t even anticipate that twist.

A wise man once said, “Write the title and they will come.”

I hated that old fart, but I guess he had a point:

The 10 Best Ways to Improve Your Sex Life in 2014!

How many of these have you seen so far? They are always written by those who will die alone.

22 Things to do in Your 20s

These are normally written by a regretful 24 year old with herpes who has attended all their best friends weddings and struggled to bring a date.

This Blog

Is written by a jealous nutjob who wants more likes, follows and shares.

…and a wife to bang and blog about.

– By Randall Evans.