Theories, much like houses, are only as strong as their foundations.
The intentions and design can only be as sturdy as the foundation allows. When the foundation is shiftable, or begins to settle unevenly, it tears massive rifts in the walls and flooring.
I have seen this done to a few houses and to many theories.
Recently, to my own theories of what home would be, what it would look like, how the schedule would work, and overall my entire trip here.
Unhappily, or happily depending on the perspective, it has gone only partially to plan and unpartially to chaos.
My foundational perspectives of what this trip would look like was indeed laid in shifting sands.
I clearly was not ready for this trip nor was Arizona ready for me it seems.
I am anxious to return to England to await the correct time Arizona becons rather than the next available flight.

Captured time-- so that when folded it would fit nicely in a pocket.
Bottle it up to keep on those ever present rainy days.

Does it show the truth or only the face you've desired to show?
The truth, your eyes, betrays you.
Days, months, years past, and those piercing eyes reveal those breathless moments.

Anger, pain, sorrow, or was it elation?
The emotions begin to string together, reminding me uncannily of thick knitting yarn.

A desire to wind and tie it around your fingers so that you never forget that moment.
Captured time, called upon in a moment of reminiscence.

A breath of fresh air arises from somewhere outside the door. Sensibility grabs a hold and you let go.
The photo to remain buried for another day when its captors will come to taunt-- yet again.

Draft 1 of part 1


Simone Evans. She had always thought her name peculiar but couldn't entirely vocalise why.
It could have been the strange reasons listed by her parents or it could have been how strange it sounded rolling out of someone's mouth-- like it shouldn't belong to her.
Either way, she couldn't decide what she would rather be called so she left it be.

This night was a night that no one was calling her name. A lonely, frigid night in her apartment. Lying on crisp bedding she sat watching the clock count down, or was it up?
All she could think of was the hours of sleep she was loosing.
And the other thing, of course.

But she convinced herself it was the worry of lack of sleep and the panic at the workload that awaited her at daybreak which was stealing those precious minutes of slumber.

Eventually the to do list grew to an unmanageable length in her mind, so she got up to write it all down.

Once she switched the light on, she left the list to pay attention to something more pressing;  the real reason she was unable to finally drift off.

There it sat. Her newest business plan. Neatly laid out in well designed and properly worded pages. Colour coordinated tabs marked the sections she felt needed revision before presenting it to her board of trustees, well, potential trustees.

Success was not a stranger to Simone, her father trained her in business from such an early age, she feigned to remember a time when she didn't understand the concept. He was proud of her recent ventures and, like any supportive father should be, was pushing her towards her latest ideas. "Simone, this could be your breakthrough to your million. Taking that risk is what made me the man I am today!"

A nagging feeling tugged at her as she picked up the now overly familiar pages. Running her fingers through each section she could not help but consider what she was getting herself into.
This most recent venture required so much knowledge into the ocean, a knowledge base she never thought she would need.

A desire to truly discover a more feasible farming system to feed the worlds ever growing population brought her to this - fish. Well, to be fair, it wasn't really fish. Plankton was the correct terminology. She told herself she must NOT call them fish at the meeting on Thursday. That would be highly embarrassing.

This would also be the closest she would come in following in her fathers footsteps. A master ship builder with contracts to every military market imaginable. Something about the ocean must run in her blood.
Still, it was not about people as she would have hoped. Maybe this was the part of business she was not prepared for by her MBA, a world of people replaced by faces on the notes she would handle.
That was it.
She would try one last time to sleep and then, if that failed, an early start at the cafe on the fisherman's wharf would be in order.

5:45 am had arrived and she was already waiting at the door.
The mix of the strong ocean scent with the smell of baking cinnamon rolls was a strangely comforting aroma. They knew her order and brought it out to her table. Her usual spot to watch the sun rise and chat with the interesting individuals who wandered by the sea front was close enough to the walking path to people watch and far enough away to not be bothered, most of the time.

Ipad out, business proposal open, and coffee was being consumed. Ideal for having no sleep at all she thought.
Before she realised it, lunchtime had come and gone.
She was still typing furiously when someone down the street was causing quite a stir. It was a good a time as any to let work sit for a bit.

Straining her neck all she could see was an ordinary man walking along the path. He was well dressed but that alone was not enough to cause this sort of commotion.
He was just simply walking, but people were stopping and questioning him. Then, following him. As he got closer she could still not see anything about him that made him so special, so stoppable. Yet, she was here, pausing from her work to watch him pass by.
As he got closer there was a wave of intense, curiosity, was it? Excitement? Power?
Who was this man?

His path led him to about 10 feet away from her table where he stopped and turned to face her.
Her heart froze from its usual rhythm, was he looking at her? What could he be thinking?

Her questions were not long lived. He spoke straight to her. "Come, walk with me"

It seemed though time itself froze in its journey toward its ill-defined end when you stood in the room.

Unaware, appearance would suggest, of the questioning gaze that floats across the room to where you busy yourself with tasks.
Questions burn in my mind, cross my vision, and blur the hard lines that define present reality. Questions that may never need vocalization.

The moment, it seems, is only shared by me. The beat of a heart is the only rhythm that has not stopped. Sounds and noise begin to dull into a soft murmur.

And then, as quickly as it started, it leaves.

The present makes itself known; deadlines rear their heads viciously to quell any soft flutters my mind might make.

but hey, I feel like I just met you.
And I truly know its crazy because present circumstances always are followed by my litany of excuses.

Safety in knowing that there is an unsaid blanket to cover a fleeting moment.

Dear time, was it minutes ago? Days? Years?
I cannot truly remember but only these feelings.

Beauty in their eventual return. Pain in their departure.
It is the intentional design, to be  quickly frozen, that it may be slowly thawed again.
However, never quickly and never in a constant motion.

You've been created.

Fashioned before time itself began, you were formed.

Intentionally designed with purpose.

This world has been made ready for you. A piece of a puzzle necessary to continue the story.

An intentionally designed, perfectly built story for you to shake history.

Mediocrity was never intended, although seemingly settled for.

They are given to fleeting moments in public recently. Small and salty droplets that squeeze their way from part of my soul and float down my cheek. Whisked away at the panic someone might see.
They only make their true appearance late in the evening when guards have been dropped and safety is found behind closed doors and dimmed lights.

The questions surrounding their appearance is just as strange to you as it is to me. Generally the motivation behind their display is easy to answer but lately an answer to this question is highly perplexing.
As their owner I feel as though the reasons ought not be so difficult to discover.

Alas, they may not be. It is the task of honesty that I find the true conflict lies in.

Peering at their sudden occurrences, I consider that the thought of a missed holiday really isn't so terrible. My love for an overstuffed avian in most american ovens is hardly cause for waterworks.

The picture, blog, or comment that elicits a similar response can scarcely be connected to a season or lack of sleep

What then is the cause of these escape artists appearing more often that I am comfortable with?


It is there, at the base of the question mark; the small dot that I've discovered their hiding place. Not a full stop but that small part the completes a strange hook at the end of what would have been otherwise a disorganised statement.

At the end of questions begin the lack of answers. At the end of questions begins the dark birth of doubt. It is there these fugitives reside.
Questions of self worth. Questions of purpose.

It is in these small dots that droplets are birthed, I am fully convinced.
In the comprehensive unhappiness at the answer I have found.

Answers pooling around in my head begin to make escape once more.

How does one measure a feeling? Can you use a ruler? Does it weigh?
More questions that wont matter at days break.

Just the acknowledgement at these questions help.
Recognition of their existence was simply what they wished.

There truly is beauty in the breakdown.

Waiting. For inspiration.

The blank canvas stands alone, centre of the room.
Waiting. For inspiration.

That small line, flashing its usual taunt at her as her fingers rest against the keyboard. The classics dance from the stereo, she grasps at their notes attempting to turn at least one concerto into a piece readable by someone feeling the same string of thoughts she is.
But there she sits.
Waiting. For inspiration.


To be inspired must elicit 'that' emotion. The wrenched emotions from a place within. Deep, below the concious level of thoughts.
Below considerations of food and drink.
Below merely the levels from which we normally think.
It is there that inspiration sits.
And waits. To be called upon.

And to what can call its name?

The pen, resting effortlessly against unlined paper. its writer wrestling with the weight of gravity to drop the encased ink captive from its gentle choke hold.
Waiting. For inspiration.

Beckoning those wispy thoughts from that chasm. Mystery, love, pain.
sighs innumerable have only escaped from its depths when briefly unguarded.

But what can bribe them, what can pull them out?
Notes strike a small string hidden within the piano. Its resonance enlivens those inner thoughts.

Rise they will. Beckoned they have been.

Waiting for this moment.
Inspiration has come.

Did you really mean to call its name?

'You need a crutch because you are weak' is the answer, not so softly, directed at my question.
'This Christ you follow is only because you need help', is what he said.

My temptation is to argue back, explaining I am not weak or in need but that would be a lie.

However, not any more weak than the faceless atheist in this conversation.

Further conversation reveals their terror at inanimate objects, heights, death, dark alleys, animals, people, and life in general. Fear stricken he clings desperately to facts, controllable figures, and things set in stone. Science, the only definable aspect of his life.

Psychology will tell you the inability to admit what the problem is will tear the most statured person apart. An introspective person will identify where they are weak and seek the counsel they need causing growth in the inner person.

I am aware that fear once gripped me. I too used medicines to sleep at night, to control the stress levels, to wake me up in the mornings, to stave off the dark circles under my eyes when a nightmare plagued the few hours of sleep I had.
Weakness. A weakness I know I am not alone in.
Your phobias betray you dear intellectual.

Your crutch is broken and useless.

Your mind cannot save you from itself and its contrived and depressed state. Unable to leave your room for fear someone may find you out. You really aren't as good as you've made yourself out to be, not as statured, not as controlled.
A life on the brink of destruction at all times. Adventure? or more realistically terror.

Tears your pillow and anti depressants only know of.

but I am weak.

However, my God says that in MY weakness HE is strong.

I do not disagree with your statement then. I do, indeed, need Him. I have introspected and realised I am the farthest from perfect that I could be and rely on him to be perfect when I need Him to be.

I have laid my fears of failure, death, pain, suffering, and worry aside.
I have picked up sleep filled nights, a worry free existence.

I suppose your charged statement of my needing help couldn't be wrong if I wanted it to be.

So what then is the difference between you and Me?
I am unafraid of my weakness because it plays no part of who I am.

Scratchings across the paper. The dull sound of a pencil laboriously drug across paper.
Paper worn with scribbles and eraser marks.

What was it that I meant to write again?

Chopin drones tirelessly in the background, reminding me that anything played C sharp minor elicits emotion from even the most statuesque.

An unwelcome elicitation.
Purpose blown off course by that melancholic drone. My to do list at the mercy of the pianist.

Romance crosses my mind and memories flood the room, dancing softly to the tune. Wafting slowly until they brush my hair then disappear again, to-- where? The background to haunt me again, or away to never return from whence they came?

I can imagine Chopin sitting in his room, scribbling with his pen, writing those lost moments in notes.
Who was she, where did she go? Was it love? Was it loss?

B flat minor, E flat major all dance across the stage of life. Seasons rise and fall to the music of it all. These souls we were given, inexplicably driven to share their inner most in whatever expression they find fitting.
Mine is to put pen to paper and create words to which rhymes are written.
Yours, although not any less driven, can create music to which my soul desires to share its dance.
And that, truly, is romance.

The case I present is a simple one:
A broken heart.

Its pieces scattered. Some north. Some south. West and East.
Lost, seemingly forever.
How, then, does one break their heart?
Does it fracture or implode, or more violently, explode?
Can it be pierced or bruised?
Those pieces, some given, some stolen.
Some unintentionally lost while others were deliberately hidden.

They say time mends a broken heart but those waiting on father time know better.
The broken heart begins to feel again.. but not the love it once knew.
Bitterness, in is place, becomes placating.
Filling the place where love was vacating.


Desperation.
Desperate for help.
Desperate for wholeness.

Where does she turn to?
Then she meets. Him.

And it is is He.

He who wrought it knows where they all are-- because-- He was also the He who bought it.
For, you see, to his His was done all these.