Write down your dreams first thing every morning.

Good advice.
Bits and pieces of your journeys will be fresh.
Keep a dream journal on your nightstand.
Snap shots of night trips will be fascinating.



As songwriters we need another journal to fill before we go to bed.

Write down your daydreams right before you go to bed.

Good advice.
Bits and pieces of your journeys will be fresh.
Keep a day dream journal on your nightstand.
Snap shots of day trips will be fascinating.

I am certain I offer scholarly advice because.....Einstein backs up my hypothesis...........

 “ Einstein relished what he called Gedankenexperimente, ideas that he twirled around in his head rather than in a lab. That’s what teachers call daydreaming, but if you’re Einstein you get to call them Gedankenexperimente. As these thought experiments remind us, creativity is based on imagination. If we hope to inspire kids to love science, we need to do more than drill them in math and memorized formulas. We should stimulate their minds’ eyes as well. Even let them daydream… [The] ability to visualize the unseen has always been the key to creative genius. As Einstein later put it, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. ”

— Walter Isaacson, author of Einstein: His Life and Universe, on Einstein’s thought experiments

So, Einstein tells us our imagination is our personal knowledge text book. Our building blocks of creativity. In a way we are writing personal reference books; handbooks for our endeavors.

At least that is my take.

Maybe I should keep a note book on my John Deere.

Might day dream while I grate the driveway today.......

gazing at the sky, white pine trees, red oak trees, crows, grey squirrels, turkeys

....mind might wander over the crunchy carpet of garnet gold leafs

might in-vision things in the newly exposed limestone landscape....

Thunderstorms sweeping through eastern Kentucky today taking humid 70s bringing chilly 40s. Windows open now to the tinkle of the warm drops bathing apple red oak and golden cherry maple leafs.

Discovered a new sound and style. Band called Golden Fable.

Check out these lyrics.

Armour

Come to my door love,
Come to my side and tell me of your failings,
I long to know.

Take off your armour,
No need to hide the heavy load you carry,
For you my ear.

Take off your armour let your guard drop down,
Take off your armour let your guard drop down.

No need to battle,
Spare me the blood and lay down all your weapons now,
Confide in me.

Though you are weary,
Come on release the heavy load you carry,
Cut loose and free.

Take off your armour let your guard drop down,
Take off your armour let your guard drop down.
Come to my door and tell me you’re failing,
Come to my door and let it all go.

Take off your armour let your guard drop down,
Take off your armour let your guard drop down.
Come to my door and tell me you’re failing,
Come to my door and let it all go.


Now check out their delivery.

https://youtu.be/J--zVVizbvI

 Doug Irwin

Meg Irwin

Folks you owe it to yourself to listen to Doug's newest cd.

A brilliant gem!

Every song is outstanding.

I mean that sincerely.

I have been trying to pick a favorite for over a week.

I cannot. Songs would be ending and I would think; 

yeah, that's my pick. 

Then the next would start and I would back off my decision.

This process has went on and on for days.

I finally gave up.

Doug's style is relaxed and comforting.

Yet extremely powerful and valiant.

4 ways to purchase. No excuses.

https://www.cdbaby.com/cd/dougirwin2

http://www.amazon.com/Bridges-That-I-Burn/dp/B017743SAU/ref=sr_1_1?s=dmusic&ie=UTF8&qid=1446669026&sr=1-1-mp3-albums-bar-strip-0&keywords=doug+irwin

Plus I tunes.

Or e-mail Doug for direct purchase info.

dougirwinmusic@gmail.com

Last night was the fifty second meeting of the 52 Club.
Man, the farther down stream you get, the faster the water! Seems like yesterday.....

I sit here this morning with a black leather binder. 52 songs reside inside. All were written to prompts pulled out of a copper pail.

I am proud to have the task completed. It wasn't easy but, it was fun.

I learned a ton about songwriting in 52 weeks.

Writing a song every week gives you confidence. You get kind of cocky in a humble way. The process doesn't get easier; you know a little sweat equity pays off, so you stick with it and get the job done.

You learn that every song is not going to be a masterpiece.
Or a profound statement on society or human existence.  
But that writing regularly is the path to writing brilliantly.
I hope!

Having the prompt written on the top of the blank page gives you a kick start.
Some of the topics were:
climb the ivy
empty trailer
over the barrel
circus style
muddy puddle
upside down
coffee cup
free range dinosaurs
overlooked
chasing dreams
Open your mind and let images fill your imagination. Ideas will flow onto the paper and viola' you are on the way.

There is no such thing as writers block. Inspiration lives inside us.
The tools are always in your pocket.

I played thru my growing song book every couple of days.
Polishing and repairing. Pickin' and grinnin'. Jumping from page to page. Good clean fun.

Quality of the songs written? Mixed.

If I had to grade them:
3-A+
3-A
14-B
15-C
17-D

32 are not very good.

14 are decent. I would play them out.

6 are very good and will be recorded.
3 of those are the best songs I have ever written.

I would say that is a good years worth of pencil sharping!

Write on!

Next week's prompt is new day.

Got to get to work............

Good morning my name is Mr. Sunshine
It's a brand new day wake up and smile

Sleeping Trees

   Fady Joudah   

Between what should and what should not be

Everything is liable to explode. Many times

I was told who has no land has no sea. My father

Learned to fly in a dream. This is the story

Of a sycamore tree he used to climb

When he was young to watch the rain.

Sometimes it rained so hard it hurt. Like being

Beaten with sticks. Then the mud would run red.

My brother believed bad dreams could kill

A man in his sleep, he insisted

We wake my father from his muffled screams

On the night of the day he took us to see his village.

No longer his village he found his tree amputated.

Between one falling and the next

There’s a weightless state. There was a woman

Who loved me. Asked me how to say tree

In Arabic. I didn’t tell her. She was sad. I didn’t understand.

When she left. I saw a man in my sleep three times. A man I knew

Could turn anyone into one-half reptile.

I was immune. I thought I was. I was terrified of being

The only one left. When we woke my father 

He was running away from soldiers. Now 

He doesn’t remember that night. He laughs

About another sleep, he raised his arms to strike a king

And tried not to stop. He flew

But mother woke him and held him for an hour,

Or half an hour, or as long as it takes a migration inward.

Maybe if I had just said it.

Shejerah, she would’ve remembered me longer. Maybe

I don’t know much about dreams

But my mother taught me the law of omen. The dead

Know about the dying and sometimes

Catch them in sleep like the sycamore tree

My father used to climb

When he was young to watch the rain stream,

And he would gently swing.

 The calm before the storm.

Short-order Cook
Jim Daniels


An average joe comes in
and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.

I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.
He pays.
He ain’t no average joe.

The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three.
I slap the burgers down
throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier
and they pop pop spit spit…
psss…
The counter girls laugh.
I concentrate.
It is the crucial point-
They are ready for the cheese:
my fingers shake as I tear off slices
toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/
refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/
beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/
into paper bags/fries done/dump/fill thirty bags/
bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve
and smile at the counter girls.
I puff my chest out and bellow:
“Thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries!”
They look at me funny.
I grab a handful of ice, toss it in my mouth
do a little dance and walk back to the grill.
Pressure, responsibility, success,
thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries.

The Widows 

Donald Hall 

Up and down the small streets, in which

no two houses are exactly

alike, widows of all ages

sit alone playing solitaire,

or knitting, or sometimes baking,

left in the big, empty houses.

Here are Mrs. Montgomery,

Mrs. Pilching, Mrs. Wolf, and

Mrs. Pelletier, all at once-

in a section of nine houses,

four widows. Sometimes they have bridge,

including either lunch or tea.

In the summer, separately,

widows spend a month in hotels

in New Hampshire, or sometimes Maine,

but never in Massachusetts.

In the winter, or some winters,

some of them go to Florida.

Book clubs, television, and ways

to supplement their small incomes

keep them busy. It is not a

bad life, they say, for there are so

many left like you, though no two

widows are exactly alike.