Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Random House
Dear Chroniclers,
the nights begin to cut in once more, as we approach yet another Autumn in the House of electrofried.
You find me bunkered down in the more remote reaches of the West Wing, tapping away at the trusty Victrola, with little plan as to what will unfold below. So we travel together for just a few precious moments, you and I - the writer and the reader, joined in a transient electronic synapse. What currents will pass between us both?
A week of reflection. Two operations undergone by our eldest daughter, the unstaunched flow of blood within an unseen hospital room, rising up in platelets of iron-starved cells. Crying out, "Feed, me!"
The sound of joyous, innocent laughter spilling down an early morning telephone - our five month old grandson, dear Little Lamper. Visits in the night. The haunting silence of a twilight fading. It calls to me, "Be still, rest ... "
Each day I wake next to my dear, precious wife there's a new prayer of thanks to be said. For life, fresh and as long as the new-born. And whilst there is breath in me to be taken, I will say it. I am alive. I am dancing in these words, smiling from these ill-snapped photographs of life.
Come dance, too. While there's still precious time.
yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
the nights begin to cut in once more, as we approach yet another Autumn in the House of electrofried.
You find me bunkered down in the more remote reaches of the West Wing, tapping away at the trusty Victrola, with little plan as to what will unfold below. So we travel together for just a few precious moments, you and I - the writer and the reader, joined in a transient electronic synapse. What currents will pass between us both?
A week of reflection. Two operations undergone by our eldest daughter, the unstaunched flow of blood within an unseen hospital room, rising up in platelets of iron-starved cells. Crying out, "Feed, me!"
The sound of joyous, innocent laughter spilling down an early morning telephone - our five month old grandson, dear Little Lamper. Visits in the night. The haunting silence of a twilight fading. It calls to me, "Be still, rest ... "
Each day I wake next to my dear, precious wife there's a new prayer of thanks to be said. For life, fresh and as long as the new-born. And whilst there is breath in me to be taken, I will say it. I am alive. I am dancing in these words, smiling from these ill-snapped photographs of life.
Come dance, too. While there's still precious time.
yours as ever,
electrofried(mr)
Saturday, September 12, 2009
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