Expertise is the New Arrogance

The other week, I was told I was arrogant in a social media forum. The other person then cut me off and cut all ties altogether. I looked up arrogant and arrogance to see if it were true, that I am arrogant. One definition that I found was this – an attitude of superiority manifested in an overbearing manner or in presumptuous claims or assumptions.  Now, I am pretty sure I don’t feel superior to anybody. Quite the reverse in fact. I think I am a bloody mess of emotions, thoughts, and reactions like most of the rest of humanity and that occasionally, when I remember, I am trying to figure all of this out. On the other hand, I am increasingly concerned by what I see in the world

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Talk, Talk

Talk, Talk is one of my favorite songs off of the album The Early Years. It came about when just playing with E and A chords on the guitar and it is essentially a two-chord song! The variations are around the two major chords. In common with pretty much all of my songs, the lyrics came after the track was completed and I looked to my poetry for inspiration. It has a vibe going that to me, harks back to some Electric Warrior T.Rex perhaps tho others have said it is more an 80’s sound…. whatever it is, I like it and I hope you do too? How fitting To see your name in print Fame always eluded you Now you are a household name A life lived in vain

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RIP The Pink Bus

The world of writing puzzles me a lot and hence my fascination I suspect. As of today, I have a #1 bestseller and several other books in the top 50 of one category or another. I even have a fast selling audiobook hit as well. Given that, you might think that a new book of well written, thoroughly entertaining, well edited short stories on the theme of life after death and what happens when we die, would have a great chance of taking off….. Well, after 3 weeks, I am forced to conclude the The Pink Bus is hereby dead. Just like Monty Python’s parrot. RIP The Pink Bus. Strange, as I really think its my best work to date as well….. Hopefully, the audiobook version will sell a little.

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The Pink Bus

The Pink Bus and Other strange Tales from LaLa Land actually got its start a long time ago. I wrote a short story right into this blog around Christmas 2014 called The Meaning of Christmas and thought I’d keep a copy in my desktop folder just in case. I went back to it a few times, tweaked it, edited it and so on but couldn’t really think how to build upon it. Then, as things do, a few weeks ago, I started writing short stories. They simply poured out of me one after the other and they all seemed to be themed around death, reincarnation, ghosts and supernatural activity and the meaning of life in general. That was when I saw where the Meaning of Christmas belonged…. I honestly think

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Tales From LaLa Land

The working title for my next ebook – a collection of fictional short stories about death, birth and the inbetween – is Tales from LaLa Land. I may add a couple of adjectives before finalizing it I suppose…. Now – why LaLa land? Well, thats where my ex-wife told me I spent most of my time….. likeheartlaughterwowsadangry0

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Sickened by Conspiracy

Last night, I tapped into the search bar on You tube ‘David Bowie interviews’. I was amazed, saddened and yes, deeply angered by what came up. Video after video proclaiming Bowie a satanist who has faked his own death and much worse. I fear that this has become an epidemic and it is one I personally have no time for whatsoever. Actually, there are two issues at play here. First, the term ‘satanist’ combined with ‘satan’ or ‘the Devil’ and secondly, the idea that people haven’t died – including school kids in the US and famous people like David Bowie. Let’s deal with the first one first. There are satanists. They do indeed exist. However, all the evidence around David Bowie is that he had an interest in the occult

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Thoughts On Death

With so many celebrities dying this last couple of weeks, I have been thinking about the subject of death. A theory that particularly caught my imagination was that of Anthony Peake who, using many lines of research, has a theory that we fall out of time at death. There is much more to his theory and those like it that are often picked up by the media that I won’t go into here. However, this thought intrigues me a lot. I have written about time quite often (for example, see this Bowie motivated post) and via meditation I have decided that time is simply a construct of the human mind to give some context to our experience of life. An aspect of ourselves is eternal or rather timeless. It operates

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Write Drunk, Edit Sober

Apparently, that’s an Ernest Hemingway quote. It is quite brilliant and sums up how I write – either drunk with alcohol or spirit…. Just not sure I edit…. sober or otherwise – at least not here…   Write Drunk, Edit Sober I sit here with my white wine Ziggy plays on the stereo The keyboard scattered with Crumbs from lunch My fingers tapping As I am rapping With words I’m drunk Certainly not sober And this poem will never be edited It may be reddited To see what you all think But do you think I care When I share my inner self Gathering dust Sitting on a shelf No one reads my stuff anyway I got lots to say But no one listens So I’m just another drunk Talking

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No One Will Remember

And when we are gone It will be like we didn’t exist All the trials, tribulations All the joy, the jubilation A life of toil and achievement Forgotten and gone No one will remember deeds No one will know the impact Written only in the dust of death After that final breath likeheartlaughterwowsadangry0

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The Dead

Somewhere there is a place The dead must go Once here, but now residing Somewhere there Cut off and isolated from the living It used to be called Hades A shadow land full of shadow people And when the sun shines They shimmer like rising heat The dead are fast on their feet Fleet of foot and silent too A higher frequency of life Is that what death truly is? All around us they play Thoughts trapped in the ether And when the light is just right We may gain a glimpse or two A flickering shadow plays Radiating under Sun rays The faint echo of laughter Or a hint of foot steps on ice A face stares back in the mirror A voice speaking starkly From within incandescent static

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