A Stolen Moment

I stole a moment only to not know what to do with it. I can sit in silence and admire it as one admires a painting of fruit. I can fill it, as I would a vase or a box, with something physical and hold onto the thrill of the act of saving for a time very soon when I have time for nothing of the sort. I can use it as an opportunity to develop an idea or a concept that could blossom into something marvelous. I could read. I could write. I could waste it in front of the TV, where it filters away like water through a strainer, leaving me only the imperfections as I move on to the next large thing in my path.

I am in-between. An appointment and a rehearsal. A paper and a production. A departure and an arrival.

And I have time to breathe for this one stolen moment.

And all I can think of is how deafening silence is after sound, how guilty I feel for sitting down, and what to do that will not waste this moment I have deftly purloined from the American Dream. And how as soon as I make up my mind, it is time to leave again.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.

>It Has Falled, and It Happies Me

>While I recognize the potential erroneous grammar in the title above, I invoke the sacred ritual established by Calvin and Hobbes of "verbing" to insist that it is, in fact correct.

I quite enjoy linguistic humor, because it implies a firm grasp on the rules before a bending of them. I respect people who respect our language, as much of a mutt it is.

But I digress.

After what seems like (as it does every year) the longest spell of overbearing heat in recorded history, today I walked to class successfully without breaking a sweat, and I smelled in the air the only thing I can describe as "fall." It's your nose's equivalent to the sound of yellow and orange and brown leaves, shriveled up and dying on the concrete, crunching under your feet as you walk, and your brain interprets it the same. A mere sensory observation, a set of empirical data travelling along nerves through what I can only imagine are your body's system like the pipes that transport a check in the drive through line at the bank. I put all this stuff inside the little tube of suction and it zooms noisily to a teller on the other side who sorts and interprets what little money I have and logs it in the correct place.

Yes I just compared nerves to the sucky thingeys at the bank.

It is undeniable, however, that these sensory observations (crunching leaves, the smell of fall, etc) translate into some sort of emotion. Expectation, hope, anxiousness, relaxation, impending exams. Football. A few months until it is acceptable to build a fire and sip hot chocolate, and then eat the soggy, chocolatey marshmallows that are left over after digging them out with the end of your finger. Carving pumpkins with knives that used to be a lot sharper into what you planned to be a deviously grinning mischievous orange gourd but ended up being a big jagged hole in the side of an oblong shell spotted brown and soft from where it had inevitably been damaged in transit. Not dressing up for Halloween and instead staying inside under a blanket watching the AMC scary movie marathon with a cup of hot cider and a plate full of Hershey's chocolate to give to what will turn into 3 trick-or-treaters knocking at your door. Dusting off your tweed jacket after its long summer of dormancy.

Needless to say, I am quite jazzed about Fall. If you're as excited as I am, share your excitements with me!

If you hate fall, comment and tell me why so that I may sit in my chair and refrain from lambasting you publicly (justkiddingjustkidding).

If you, like I, think that something magical happens beyond what the leaves can show, then rejoice on, dear reader. It has falled, so happy on :)

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.

>Big Brother May or May Not Be Watching

>

I have realized I have nothing significant to say right now.

I was checking out the analytics that Google so generously performs on this site, and have noticed a trend that has peaked my interest: one that I would like to reach some sort of conclusion on. See, I can see where each and every reader is reading this blog from, and I have begun to wonder exactly how it is some of you have stumbled across it. I am particularly talking to: Lynchburg, VA (with 22 hits in the past two days), Haslett/Lansing, MI (15), Los Angeles, CA (8) and Miama, FL (5). It may mean nothing and it may be purely random, but I'd like to at least know that it's a turn of chance. Strike up a conversation guys! I'd love to know where you're from and if I make you angry or happy or despondent or jubilant or bored or anything. I'm open to some back and forth here :)

Ok that's all. Perhaps I'm just feeling a little big for my britches, and if that's the case, tell me. I think I see a trend developing here haha. A little trend called talking. It's revolutionary

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.

>A Promise of Things To Come

>School has started, which means my brain is working again, which means that blogs will be coming more often, which means that you should subscribe.

Or follow me on Twitter, because most of the time I'll alert you via that fantastic mass communication medium when I have something worthy of your viewing and reading pleasure.

That is all I have to say before I scurry off to the next step in my painfully hectic Tuesday.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.