It started out as leisure.

Just a story with a name.

Just a dirty little poem.

With no guilt that wasn’t shame.

Then there was the paintings.

Looked like something maybe art.

Then a thought became a film.

Just no stopping once we start.

Was a murmur from a choir.

And a voice that rattled hymn.

From a note that just got higher.

In a light that knew no dim.

In the moments that were awkward.

I learned to listen and looked to see.

Saw the living and breathed spirits.

You can’t guess which one is free.

Marcus wrote, ‘When you arise in the morning think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive-to breathe, to think, to enjoy and to love. ‘

Now there’s a meditation.

It might be important to note that Mr Aurelius was the last of what was considered to be in Rome…

‘The 5 Good Emporers. ‘ A period of about 200 years that ended in 180 A.D.

Marcus was also a Stoic Philosopher.

Someone, not me said “No one is hated more than he who tells the truth.”

I have always called people on their bullshit, which means: I Am Difficult.

I think this part of my life is over because I don’t really care anymore who believes what.

I am now entering a new phase of silence and solitude. These are early days and I suspect there will be growing pains.

The ‘wise one’ told me that I have to learn detachment. Which is an art of separation from the emotional baggage of others

This should be fun…

The Play was light and shadows.

Made me think of death and life.

I was single in realities.

In my head she was my wife.

There’s a beauty in the seeing.

There’s a wisdom in this pain.

That I can know and leave behind.

And not look back again.

There was sunlight in the raindrops.

No silence on the bus.

The crew they were complaining.

Thank God it wasn’t us.

The Chardonnay wasn’t chilled enough.

The trolly was a running late.

Others were lacking something.

Which was only tempting fate.

We were spared a final torment.

Because their destination came.

I was left feeling so much better.

And my silence held no shame.

The toast was not burnt I swear.

The cream was fresh and chilled.

The rosè was a vintage fine.

And no goblets were broke or spilled.

Somehow I just woke grumpy.

From my king size goose down bed.

I probably owe apologies.

For something or other I said.

Sometimes there’s no reason.

For my less than kind retorts.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t love or care.

It just means I’m out of sorts.

The sentence was death by boredom. The virus spread the earth.

Madness rained down upon them. Like some monsters giving birth.

They handed out free money. The kind that makes you soft.

And nearly jumped out their skin. When someone smiled and coughed.

Then Dylan put out an album. With a song called Murder Most Foul.

That sounds as disgusted as I feel. Like the purging of a bowel.

I’ve learned to take the blessings and take them as they come.

He is at another level, a bit too much for some.

“What a great idea… Do you know what this place is missing? A box of shit in the living room! Let’s get a cat.”