walterdoege

Just another WordPress.com site

Month: June, 2013

a love letter

dear mother…one year later I should have to say the last goodbye to you…today I feel me in good stand…you told me to live joyouly as you lived…in my prayers we keep taking a sweet and amorous dialogue and convivence. I feel your love, and the love of all beloved ones…I can appreciate all the blessings I received, and I keep on going joyously the loving path…somewhere in time…some time somewhere, I can write that birth and death are two wings of and endless lovely flight. Peaceful. Trustful. I love you. Walter

the tempest, one year later

the tempest was tough…swept away the most secure place at my house…the place where i sit down in my armchair corner to write, to read, to pray, to contemplate the world…today the time is an issue that makes matter…I have my glasshours and my old compass…the hills of books are some special walls…somehow reshaped…the essential of my house is the same…and today my house is a sweet, sweet home…and I can jump the roadblocks of the long run trustful in goodness…ever good futures…I can keep on going the loving road…roll on, loving road, roll on…love ahead…my heart is open…to ever good futures…and lovers, please, keep on loving…the river goes to the ocean…to love…the ocean that refuses none of us…the love that refuses no river

the writer, the blogger

I feel me a writer although I take blogging…that still new tool…blogging is some form of writing on line…not exactly an e book…I like to take a book with my hands…perhaps I’m also a blogger…to make stronger the writer

portrait of a street II

i don’t like to walk at streets…with some exceptions…from old reveries…walking at streets of my sentimental Paris was a warmth experience that I could appreciate many times…in my memories…and perhaps I can take a travel to walk at the same streets…near my dear library and bookstore…the Shakespeare and Company…and after a promenade…sit at a café and watch the bateaus shipping out the river alongside…sending its light to the courtyard of Notre Dame…and run the night…sensing the breeze of spring…or the soft winds of autumn…where I live I don’t walk at streets…i choose to walk at this small city named shoping center…or when I travel to some near beach…take a walk alongside the sea…the ocean…the ocean that refuses no river…or walk at streets in my imagination…the portrait is a street, a café, peoples and families and children playing and enjoying the life…safe…joyously…creatively…a street that is an extension of a big house: a lovely city…a city peaceful and joyful…it’s may be a portrait of a wish…a wish that can comes true

a song band of robots!

I was reading the newspapers as I do everyday…and I’ve read a curious notice…a musical band of robots undertake some presentation…and the commentator wrote that the performance was perfect…another day I’ve read a notice about a robot playing an acoustic piano…the song sounded perfect, but I feel no emotion…no feeling…no sentiment…the imperfection is art

authorship

the most difficult task is write the first words and phrases…at the long run…the first step is the very hard…in fact, writing as a fiction writer is some stretching way…to keep on the path…to share my words and phrases…I’m not a robot, but just a writer

talking to the walls

this is a sensation I do have when writing…in a rainny and stormy day…I begin to read some writing at loud voice…I’ve read to the four walls of my personal house side…and it was not a soliloquy not a form of trouble in my mouth…the solely listening of my own voice turned on my own writing in a reading moment…not as a echo…sometimes I feel I write to no one, but it is an illusion…perhaps the dreams are addressed only for me, but who is the author of a dream?…I read at loud voice some wandering handwriting that recorded some dreamnight…and at a tiny instant…I take the notes and read to the walls…and I could hear the sounds of a tough silence…and my voice sounded clearly…anyway…if I write for me…I am also reading for you

the writer, the entertainer

it seems, most of all, that writing is a way of enternaining myself…writing and blogging are different ones…and I guess blogging is not exactly writing online…this way, I’m not a blogger…as a writer, I can enternain myself…and you…dear reader…because even the most personal diary or journaling is addressed to you, dear reader…I don’t write for myself, although sometimes i feel this way…the sentiment, however, is that I write to take some entertaining time…and save the writing…for later reading, by myself, and you

the enternainer

writing is some task that each writer keep going on because of it’s own motivations…writing off line is a solitary task…reading seems most a conversation in between reader and the author…reader and the book…after all, I have nothing to say, so I do write…the solitary writing is the real act of the writer…as a beacon is a solitary light at horizon…someway, writing is some creative work that leads to some learning and some teaching…most of all, leads to some enternaining…I don’t know what I have to learn or teach…I guess fiction writing is close to some old jazz song I’ve listened some day…’the enternainer’, a great Scott Joplin song…an up beating song…joyous…like a good trip and walking at a playground…where peoples, families and children can sense the joy of each bit of time

winter sunny day

after almost ten days of moist and cloudy days…today is a sunny day…I wake up hearing the little birds singing…hearing the clocks in my window bedroom…the birds, a couple, seemed happy…and the first daylight bring some different atmosphere…after ten days of storms and an oceanic atmosphere…I watched through that window…and could see that everything is good with myself…I feel some deep feeling of gratitude…and taking at hands some beads from shoresea…the touch of the beads help me track the path