9000 Words

  Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "Winter Light in the Trees"    Inspired by Sher at  www.unboundliving.net We all have a story. What we do with that story makes a difference to the outcome of what we believe about ourselves.   I have leveraged some of my most significant mistakes to unlock the best parts of myself, and love the parts I hid in shame. What will you do with your story? In the dream, where I pretend to carry the story of my occhiolsm. I am a school boy running down a crowded hall. Miraculously this reoccurring theme no longer finds me in my underwear. However what awaits is a test I have yet to study for. The hard floor under the pit-pat of my feet echos with all the noise of a crowded passing period. The slamming metal lockers, is the only sound loud enough to break the din. talking, shouting, and laughing, I too am a ghost in the menagerie as I slues my way under a sea of greenish florescent lights. Clutching tightly against my chest my arm protecting the narrative

  Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "Rainy BeReal" On a Monday When every puddle reveals its filler Gary and I are waiting Amid drops on the pavement With a phone that won’t ring Where pearls of water will hide me There are no words In these reflections, leafless and thrashing Your absence constrains us Occasionally flickering among A delivery that was not Where Rumblings that shudder Some job yet to start We were alone together When everything goes Up in the trees

  Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "September Squall"   I looked at my finger today,   And I remembered how I had sliced off a hunk on a Sunday There was so much wind blowing through my hair   And I of thought how grateful I was beyond the little scare My index to keep in old the self aware And I let the fingers run through to push the wind back into the air

  Life presents each of us with unique set of people and choices. If we are to be defined by our decisions and relationships, then I would like to suggest these three words define Rich Cain. REAL, GENUINE, and DEDICATION. According to Marrium-Webster, a synonym the word REAL is defined as “having an objective independent existence ” As some of you are aware, years ago in the 1990’s, my father and I shared the same employer Sears and Roebuck. Dad sold plumbing and heating, and I worked in visual merchandising. Often out of pure convenience the two of us would meet and share a coffee break or lunch. One afternoon I called him on the house phone, I told him I was taking a break. His immediate reply was that I had got my break when I got the job. I laughed and said   I’m going out into the mall to get my ear pierced, you want to come with, I’ll treat? His reply, just as quick “see you in a minute”. And so it was on that day that the two of us took coffee break, went out into the mall and g

  Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "March Weather"   The sun was out today But the wind whittled its way   Through the clothes where I hide Leaving me cold on the inside Of the bones That carry me home Shivering towards the nest Searching for warmth search me for rest In the room blankets to spoon Nuzzle them in towards a downy slumber My place at last to saw logs into lumber Down into a dream Woven with who it might seam Building frames together Not thinking much beyond March weather

Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "Snow Moon Sunrise" I decided to resurrect and remake a project called “ Twenty eight days ”. It was a photo journal I did fourteen years ago. I started this new project because I was not enjoying my dry January. Typically when I give up drinking in the winter months I find my creative spirit waiting for me. It was not the case this year. However I also typically start abstaining after January, so maybe it’s the month that is the problem? Either way. I am still not imbibing, because I have decided to take a “ride it until I find it” attitude. At the very least it fills the in-betweens and quiet moments. It makes for lively conversation in my head when things are bleak. Back in 2009 I created a set of rules, and wrote an inspirational poem. The project was inspired by the painting “Icebound Ship” by, Bradford William. Twenty eight Days was a photographic exploration of February through the eyes of a Stay at Home Dad. Representing each day with a pic

  Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "10 Confessions" I have water skied behind a 18’ sailboat: I find it funny that something I did as a kid, with the help of many adults, has gained me as much infamy. The boats name was “Angel Dust”. It was the 1980’s. And I was a small 13 year old boy, on two wooden water skies, that were enormous compared to my self. I could almost stand up on them, on the water, with out moving. It was a very windy day on Bussey lake, where swimming is forbidden. Three accomplished sailors who were most certainly drunk, held down the Chrysler Buccaneer as she planed over the “water”, and pulled me illegally over Shaumburg’s effluence. Yes, Bussey lake is the out flow pond from a water treatment plant… It is were I had my moment of fame.  I keep a blog that no one reads: It is my repository for what I consider finished works. I wish someone would take a moment to look at it once in a while. I want to sail to Australia: I found a love for sailing when I was 11 yea

  Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "Prose at Woosley" I haven’t posted in a while  The sky has been so gray And I have not felt worthy of what I might say Despite my preoccupation I know I need your companionship But, what message I might I display I know not under my blanket on this day Forgive me if all I have is a scroll past Your happiness and Joy is all that I pray As I walk with these dogs at Woolsey

Photo credit:  Scott Cain  "Garbage Truck Accident" I hung up the phone. The woman had been pleasant, but had provided no answers. It was three weeks since I had seen him. She said he was 7th in line, what ever that meant. My gut said that they were planning to keep him for another month.   At 2pm, in a quiet valley, where a road ended, there was chaos. A garbage man was on the ground. He had lost his balance, missed the brake, stumbled, and then fell out his truck. I watched him as he smacked his head on the asphalt. It was not as he had planned things to go. The big stinky truck rolled away backwards down the hill. The big beast now free was going on a killing spree. A little Jeep its first victim. The poor little thing squealed as she was smashed and pushed against her will. Thirty feet down the hill and into old man Nissan. A terrible crunch! Now he too protested with fright as the brute gouged, smashed, and bent his rusty old frame.   At the bottom of the valley Gary was