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“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”
Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Footprints In Place

When I run my fingertips over a brick wall of a local shop in the neighborhood, I can feel the patina left by the residents.

Expensive grooves.

I’m reminded of the warriors chasing the buffalo sketched on the inside belly of a cave, boasting of ancient hunting exploits.

Are these gaps in civilization the stretch marks of growth?

The experience leaves behind the scars, with all their varying degrees of artistry.  Not all have permission to place their mark on the wall of the shops, and yet, they display their transgressions boldly.

One tag to characterize them all.

The street infringes on business, but it is the true scope of the economy.

Layer upon layer a story is told.

Clearing The Senses

Seth Godin recommends going for a long walk to clear the head, and I know this works for me.  The psychological push from the Scotties has come and gone.

Now that it’s over, I feel strange and depressed.

Growth is exhausting.

As a father, I think back to watching my sons being born.  There is an enormous expenditure of energy, but mommy is given bare moments to rest before her newborns are left on her breast to feed.

No rest for parents.

Quiet Time To Plan

I imagine that is what a writer feels like to complete a novel.

The project that has defined my life for a year is finished.  The battle is over, and now a new step must be taken.

The training wheels have fallen off.

The blog is rolling, but for the last few days my mind feels foggy, and I just want to sleep.  A loved one may say, “You’ve done a hard day’s work, take a break.”

My guts tell me to continue to push through Resistance.

Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood

When I lived at our first house, I took many walks, the air, the trees would invigorate my senses and leave behind ideas.

The integration between Nature and Humans fascinates me and allows my mind to stretch beyond worry.

In my urban journey’s I found a short cut along the railway lines through a field, down to a path that wound itself along the creek.  The place had a sense of danger, running parallel to the train tracks.

A calming smell of creosote.

Although many cow paths traced their way through the woods and under the train bridge, I rarely saw a person.

It was in these places I discovered Parkour.

The Metal Bridge

The underside of the train bridge was a work of art.

If you appreciate the engineering of a bridge designed to sustain the weight of year’s of train travel, that is a gem in itself, however, the feral children weren’t satisfied to leave the beams in their original condition.

Layers upon layers of humans placing their marks. High into the beams, they climbed and left no crack or crevasse untouched by their paint.

Symptoms of eminent domain.

Examining the details, I imagine the needles and the empty beer cans scattered around the remains of a fire, tell a story of wildness.

These mysterious places are only found on foot.

Chicken Soup For The Soul

My miracle morning has remained intact during the test of the Scotties and I endured.  Now the time is ripe for me to do another walk about reorient my mind and plan out the next project.

What’s up next for writing?

I am incorporating the strongest blog posts written during the time between Grande Praire and the St. Catharines Scotties, into a novel, one continuous narrative.

Until the next walkabout.



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