A Mind in Motion

     He whistled softly as he left his cubical and stepped out into the open hallway, his eyes fixed on the paperwork in front of him that needed copying. The tune he could faintly recall drifted in the air along with the hum of the ducts above pushing recycled stale air out like it would make a difference to the smells that every other office he had ever worked in seemed to create--a melting pot of metal, plastic, food and bodies.      Watching the slight gleam of light kick off from the still rather large device--he often wondered how technology could make smart phones with scanners but copiers still stood like sentries hogging corner space--he caught a glimpse of movement behind him and turned slightly to catch a shadow quickly dart out of sight. It had been getting bolder over the last few weeks, more willing to let him see clearer shapes of its form, but it still kept to itself during the daylight hours.      He hadn't decided yet if ...

     As many of you know, I started the year off with a fresh notebook I intended to fill up with drawings on a daily basis until it was full. It's a simple sketch pad with 70 pages in it and I thought I could easily do a doodle a day as I am often sketching one thing or another. And it was simple, for the first few days, perhaps even into the first few weeks. Then I felt something I had not experience before--a dry well.      It wasn't that my imagination was empty, in fact it daily over flows with ideas and visuals, but my drive, my energy to give them an outlet, started running low. There were many days I only had an hour to get a sketch in and, with so much going on in my life as it was, I felt like I was just dropping little random lines with very little emotion behind them just to say I had done it. Pride is an awful creature that can push you forward when your feet can barely hold you.      It got to the point I had to evaluate wha...

     He remembered the first time he had heard the tale--the Haunting Story of a beautiful woman swallowed by the sea who beckons men with phantom lips to a watery doom--and though he had been but a boy, he had pulsed with heartache. How unfair, he had thought, for such a creature to be lost under the sway of Poseidon. His imagination painted many vast imageries over the years of what she would be like--swirls of cerulean blue, sea foam green with obsidian eyes--and he yearned with curiosity to capture a glimpse of her.      It was no surprise then that, as soon as he was able, he had traded dry land for long nights on rocking wood and sea legs that jellied at ocean born squalls. Wet ropes tore and calloused his young hands, rum became a permanent taste upon his tongue and salt water dripped from his pores. Each night, as the stars glittered above and the lapping waves rocked against the side of weathered wood, he would hang a lantern over the railing of ...