Palace of Versailles (poem) by Tony Chapman

Maze Drawings by Tony Chapman

spontaneous writing on my very own blog: hurtles, backfiring, over the crescent of the yellow hill, dazzled by sunflowers and a myriad daisies and yellow tulips and multiple suns and I’ve been brain washed to thinking what I write and draw can never be quite good enough… what do you think?

waiting for the window to be fixed.

sitting in our tiny living room waiting for man to arrive to fix the window.Forced to stay put, I gradually arrive and my breath deepens and my shoulders drop …

… now he’s arrived and he is fixing the window … its open and a clean, cool, fresh wind blows in … very welcome after a week with the window screwed shut.

l wake up this morning, lack of sleep

tired and feeling depressed about my life . Will do my 1/2 hour meditation in a moment and then feel better about my life… and then arrive in the Moment.

But the thing is, is the feeling before I meditate telling me something I should listen to? or is it fine to shake the feeling off through meditation and then feel everything is fine and so not do anything to change my life situation. ?

But of course I’m writing this from the perspective of having just woken up and feeling tired and depressed, so I can’t trust those feelings because I havn’t yet meditated.

So I’d better meditate!

thank you everyone for listening.

hello 137 by Tony Chapman

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Outside birds sing … dawn chorus … faint light appears through the skylight above me … a hum and the faint tap of my Spen stylus … me trying to write about what is in this moment

… tiredness behind my eyes …

apps are the Alladins cave … I lie awake all night searching for more and more … I always come back to Snotes. Must leave this device downstairs at night – must!

Feel better for writing about it all though –  money low again – gig tomorrow night with  bass player – should sleep – will have to cancel lesson tomorrow – no time for me … hardly – only way to get time for me is to lie in bed at night writing on my device … I have no children to carry my genes on – how strange – this particular billion years old evolutionary line – ends here – with me …

and yet, as there is only this moment what does it really matter?

l lie in bed waiting for Godot … oh how far does it go? – this spirit and spiral the past is just a memory, the future is ? … I close this ragged door and the pitiful strangers pass through … they collide and ricoche across tragic ballroom floors, they dance heavily on the poished wood, their heavy, muddy boots, dragging.

Where are they/we now?…  our apples smelling over-ripe, in their orange boxes, stored on the dry, dusty floor of the woodshed at the bottom of that muddy track .

oh, take these blinkers from my eyes
… let me see again
… through this silly, rattling rain, hammering lightly on the corrugated iron of the goat’s shed at bottom of the garden. And beyond the shed: the ditch and beyond the ditch: the field, where the black and white cows sometimes ran …

…oh yesterday is gone and I’m learning,
… who knows maybe I’II have a family yet?

… and maybe there is another lifetime, endless Planet Earths, in endless, different dimensions, and us, merely transfering from one to another.

… and my own father’s life has finally reached the end … God bless him… it is so wierd.