constant change

in the past i hated poetry. i considered it the epitome of emotions, sentimentality, and un-reasonableness. i hated that poets wanted me to feel something. never ever, had you asked, would i have said i there was a chance i'd like poetry.
guess i was wrong. i've been finding lots of stuff that i like lately. longfellow, byron, james russell lowell, abigail, emily dickenson, even the largest surprise of all...shakespeare? where has my head gone? now there is still much that is too sticky for me. but overall, i appreciate poetry.
it's crazy, how people change.
change is the one constant in life. this i know well. right now, it seems like everyone around me is in a season of major change. shiftings. while i just keep sailing on, ripples of change from their lives bumping into my ship & floating past with little effect. while i make no ripples of my own.
i actually like it.
seasons. sunsets and dawnings, tides coming in and out.

i wish i could write poetry. a poem would get what i'm thinking onto paper with more cohesiveness.


it seems this has become a travel blog. i like having a place to stick pictures and quotes from trips. i don't journal very well. blogging helps memories stay clearer in my mind, because i re-live them immediately after. mum likes to read about my trips. (probably because i tell stories like abi's fam--only i'm one person interrupting myself and going off on random threads and not quite finishing the original story. i will never be the storyteller of the family!) my latest trip was a week in key marathon spending most days on the splendid blue sea. this captures my sentiments:
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield (1878-1967)