Victors Heart Chimes

  Hell hath no fury, like the might of the human heart. For somewhere in or around this tiny vessel the beginning seeds of religiosity were sown. In the heart’s ability to be simultaneously: soothsayer, curse maker, heartbreaker, and dreamweaver, we are perplexed by the complex production around us.  Somehow in the mish-mash back and forth of these languages of the heart, life is spun into motion, all we know to be right and wrong of ourselves is brought forth into fruition. Suffice to say, heaven and hell are chambers of the heart and which one you occupy can be a choice, and which one you occupy today may change tomorrow.

For me the draw and drag of writing is welcoming someone into the house of my spirit. A humble abode that is not often clean and tidy, but upon news of a guest I prepare with a reasonable tidy. Enough to be presumably clean, not enough to suggest the expectation of company.  My house is lived in with my mass of milk containers piled in the hallway to the kitchen and dishes stacked, filling the sink. I dislike the look that gives, but I often find myself to busy to keep up with trivial tidings. My bed slept in. An understatement because that bed has seen me curse at night, seek the value of comfort and solace, that “turn in” feeling, that I can never find. But the scene of a mess of sheets and blankets strewn madly about remains. A hard fought trophy I push it out of mind because of insomnia or the voracious tossing and turning, yearning for a renewing rest, but somehow remains out of grasp.  It’s my abode and I dislike the way that it reflects me. But the doorbell rang, an ind...

For me the draw and drag of writing is welcoming someone into the house of my spirit. A humble abode that is not often clean and tidy, but upon news of a guest I prepare with a reasonable tidy. Enough to be presumably clean, not enough to suggest the expectation of company.  My house is lived in with my mass of milk containers piled in the hallway to the kitchen and dishes stacked, filling the sink. I dislike the look that gives, but I often find myself to busy to keep up with trivial tidings. My bed slept in. An understatement because that bed has seen me curse at night, seek the value of comfort and solace, that “turn in” feeling, that I can never find. But the scene of a mess of sheets and blankets strewn madly about remains. A hard fought trophy I push it out of mind because of insomnia or the voracious tossing and turning, yearning for a renewing rest, but somehow remains out of grasp.  It’s my abode and I dislike the way that it reflects me. But the doorbell rang, an ind...