Wish You Well By David Baldacci Chapter Summaries

Ramblings from September to October 2010

"The place golden"

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From September 1927 , 2010

My life is just that sometimes life is like that one is paradigm of a poet. With sparks and decisions that poems from each of the pores, for periods of rapture to the many other verses that have left me, with or without your permission, but in most cases, at that time between the everyday unburied and the routine one agrees to this role is assumed to live, " have " (without quotation marks) as in the verb is built the way we live. That is why I dare to say that it is distant reality paradigm, at least in my case.

not "have" when making poems, but when laburar front of a screen and make transactions for or on behalf of the firm that we pay the wages. I was through here the meaning of the word. It comes from the salt with others traded their livelihood, when salt was "the spice of life." , was measured, the pattern of trade. For this reason " salarium " was coined in ancient Rome as "salt ration paid to someone's work, that meaning becomes synonymous to pay.

And that concept is that I spend my days working, living in this glass cage. However, there are loopholes of time, manner and place, which adverbs, which allow the flower blossom intromisa , the untimely color amid the monotony, called infant line called poem. Some will jump from your toes to some of the books furniture notes travel with me in my backpack . Others, quiet time, jump to the phosphorescence of the PC. Usually none of them ask for permission, it is obviously arrogant and irreverent. It rests in my soul, even when no one has called, and creates effective demand that can eventually lead to anxiety, and even in some cases to the frustration .

course and one with the weather being accepted, because in this "fight " has come to understand that although these extremes occur especially when it fails " be " never really therefore goes live skin day and night dreams, create arpeggios rebels jumping again, with other ways perhaps, but always with the same spirit of "being" not to die, living in leaf paper, and be established in a few lines, whether paired, excessive, extreme or musical cadence of cacophonous feelings or not. They (the poems) are not alone, because without that we notice are the tips that we feel we break something, and behind all the arrow with its attachments. Almost without realizing it, make blossom the poem. Is a tear, a calving. It is a give life to something that not even consciously knew we possessed. It is the fruit sublime though not finished material, required after the affection of the goldsmith of verses, the maker of beauty to polish their chips, their edges storm for home a few moans and even try to convert some cacophony and dissonance in music, but more than this, in rhythm at that time of movement. Thus the product that sometimes they offer in this blog is created, no matter if the primal mortar was on me, on my skin, my memories, my longing, as I imagine, does not matter, was in me and was ... and at that moment you can say, and "is" ... the rest is art, just as many writers have said to the hackneyed question: "How do you write?"

Blue Tone

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October 2010 postscript

Today, some few readers overlook the few letters which I share, as most is not only unpublished but unborn. Some, like everything else, they are indifferent, while others just say from bespoken with its own code of signals, their appreciation and celebration. However, there are those who dare (what which I appreciate) to publicly express (as thousands do not, I guess) that feeling that my letters are " a drivel," which nourish me and impels me to be getting better . The latter, I offer apologies and an invitation to return. I can only say that I still love the free will of personal taste, in a matter as subjective as poetry.

forbidden territory is the critical , is a land of shifting sands, as typical survivors avoid. So how do you know what write and publish has some literary value? In it, I go in this post that asks you regular visitors, abusing them and love that I have, to help me in this endeavor. I thought maybe there is no more way to delve into the labyrinthine intricacies of this "closed lodges" which are clubs reading, poetry writing workshops and the like, not that it fails to recognize the thousands of merits and some exceptions, to understand the hows and whys of poetry. Maybe it's for good, maybe it is to ml do not know. Who knows?

Footnote: Any similarity with reality is purely coincidental and frankly, that in no way compromises the author with assimilation or deductions to get the unsuspecting reader or cross is taken to analyze the written work, one that comes more from the desire to blog that something different.