My Christmas present

Bob has been working on my Christmas present and I quite like it. This is it.

Sólveig Lilja - the artist

We went to the farm last weekend and Sólveig Lilja got to play a bit with my camera. Interesting pictures she took, you can see them here.

A bit of fun

I was playing with the camera the other day and took this picture. I think it's pretty cool.

New Year

The river of time flows ever onwards towards the ocean of possibilities. Dreams and promises are tested; some found wanting is laid upon its banks. Empty coke bottles and candy wrappers, trash cans filled to over flowing with discarded boxes to await collection. To be taken away along with all of the unfinished tasks of the year.

Yet in a Child's eye the doll or rocking horse becomes more than that we can ever know. For they see this and more as but a vessel to transport them to a land of make believe, a land to which we that grow old can but never return. The Promised Land was given to us and yet taken away with the discovery of adult love. For that is the price we must pay and with this knowledge we that give rise to children want so much to delay, delay their exit from Eden.

The fireworks fly upwards towards the stars and in so doing place a period upon the year. The bells ring out to proclaim the new page for the coming year. The time set aside for reflection has ended. Now with a smile we turn to each other and the family is whole and set for adventures yet to come. Families are bonds of love and frustration, true, but, they are more, they above all else give testament to why we are here.

I am what I am. And in the eyes of the family I am what I can and will be. What is life? Look into the eyes of the family and know that it is this;

Love.

(RLP)

Chip, chip

Chip, chip, the sounds of a persons dream dying, fading into dispare. For what is a chip, but a slice of life that has fallen from grace and the tile intact is no more. To be sucked up into the heavens that is the vacum cleaner, a metaphore for Death himself. A bang of the hammer sends the tile into bits, bits thrown and wanted no more. Bits that had as a whole served the house without question, and yet in the blink of an eye its purpose is no more. For in shards it receives no reward, just the trashcan that awaits us all in either coffin or can. Lighting slivers of tile litter the floor. Years have passed, feet have crossed, water, tears have fallen in to the history of it making. But, no more. Now it is time for it to return to the land and await its next incarnation. Waiting in the next room to replace the old, the new. The old tile hangs on with grim determination. A chip weakens the whole. The new waits. and yet the old now waits only the hammer to fall. To destroy its whole and to pass it unto the history of the land that is called out of date, out of fashion. A though, perhaps. Empathy, said the tile. Chip, said the hammer and together they joined and parted.

(RLP)