After spending a few wedding weekends in Cali and the Mid-Atlantic with old friends and making new friends this past week traveling through Spain and France, I am feeling very thankful for both the people who have enriched my life so much along the way and for those whom I have just had the good fortune to meet. I will try to keep a record of the moments shared and places visited along the way.
The aim: total coverage.
Kawasaki!
(Little bandit needs premium, Dude!)
Monday, June 25, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Arrival in DC - June 17 2012
From this swamp surged a fresh tide of novel liberties, and as it receedes, we are left with the sludge and residue of our violent past, through which the future becomes ever more obscured. Would that we could find our compass and follow the light to brighter seas.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Ripple
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?
It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they're better left unsung.
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.
There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone,
If you should stand then whos to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.
Written & Performed by the
Grateful Dead
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?
It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they're better left unsung.
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.
There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone,
If you should stand then whos to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home.
Written & Performed by the
Grateful Dead
Friday, September 9, 2011
To Maine
To Maine:
A land to which a name has said it all
belying truth as it lies at our feet
and loyal like the hound or baying dog
we strive to act and honor with our feats
As brothers bound by slowly passing time
which leaves so little trace upon this place
and seeking something lost so long ago
escape one moment the endless human race
Water runs forever in decline
yet hope springs eternal in our cheers
life stops its rushing for a while
as jokes and laughs scare off the native deer
Tomorrow we will rest upon the grass
and throw the sacred die into the air
but never will we lay our beers to rest
nor stop the games for rabbits nor a bear.
Worry free and whimsy is the way
the MAINEly brews will surely find their end
when exiting our corpus in a stream
ne'er to be forgot just like a dream...
Camp Relief 2011
Andrew Hicks
Back to Earth
As the plane circled high above Boston's Logan International, the universe was modeled by a vast expanse of clouds. This grey scaled whirling world, full of smooth undulating valleys and the sharp towers of billowing thunderheads which rose, silhouetted against an endless, depthless field of infinite white revealing inside an emptiness from which flicker hints of another universe, much like our own, wherin lives the sun.
Winding around and down into the evolving physics of that vaporous realm, all traces of the sun were spun away and the once glimmering rivulets of rain turned to shade and blocked all meaningful perception of space. Time too was swayed by the ever tightening spirals of the descending plane.
The Boston he returned to was a colder, damper vision of the humidity drenched city from the sticky days of summer. This was his home away from home while away from home. Home resembling now more of a state of mind, a comfortable envelope of relaxation, a healthy active respite from the endlessly revolving carousel that was "routine." Home was the place where spinning ceased and the sun appeared and was appreciated, where the phases of the moon were more than passing glimpses of a far off sphere and seasons were allowed to flourish in all their wild variety.
Light exists at home - and love. Humanity with all its joy and suffering is born at home.
Through the wisps of condensing molecules and in the roar of the jet engines, the suddenly appearing runway lights, through washed out streets, under awnings and umbrellas, it was home he sought more than anything else.
Winding around and down into the evolving physics of that vaporous realm, all traces of the sun were spun away and the once glimmering rivulets of rain turned to shade and blocked all meaningful perception of space. Time too was swayed by the ever tightening spirals of the descending plane.
The Boston he returned to was a colder, damper vision of the humidity drenched city from the sticky days of summer. This was his home away from home while away from home. Home resembling now more of a state of mind, a comfortable envelope of relaxation, a healthy active respite from the endlessly revolving carousel that was "routine." Home was the place where spinning ceased and the sun appeared and was appreciated, where the phases of the moon were more than passing glimpses of a far off sphere and seasons were allowed to flourish in all their wild variety.
Light exists at home - and love. Humanity with all its joy and suffering is born at home.
Through the wisps of condensing molecules and in the roar of the jet engines, the suddenly appearing runway lights, through washed out streets, under awnings and umbrellas, it was home he sought more than anything else.
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