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Working On My Resume
Okay, Mikey, I’ve got the giggles this morning. One of our old songs was playing, Taxi, by Harry Chapin. I still love that song. It made me realize this morning that I need to add another job title to my resume. Actress. Through the years, just like Harry’s old girlfriend and Taxi, I’ve been acting happy. That’s my recurring role. OH, my goodness! I just realized that there’s another job title I can add to my resume from the same song. For just like the taxi driver I’ve learned to be a pilot–for like him I fly so high when I’m stoned. So many giggles for this cloudy, dismal morning.…
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I Can See His Eyes
Mikey, I’m scribbling in the dark tonight. Sending words to you is where I still turn. I can see his eyes. They are green eyes just like mine. They look at me without blinking. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry anymore. He just looks at me with my green eyes. I can’t move. I know it will do no good. I can’t reach him or touch him. The evil won’t let me. Each time I try, he stomps on my broken fingers again or kicks me so hard it lifts me off the ground. No matter what, I can just see his eyes. I can see his eyes now even…
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I Promise the Longer Pieces Are Coming
Most of my time with this has been spent retyping the notes from Jane. They are mostly short snippets of thought. There are a few longer ones and I certainly have a lot to add to the story. Those are long pieces and they will clarify much of the mystery. I promise some of those are coming soon.
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Falling Off the Philosophical Wagon
I’ve been playing Piano Man by Billy Joel all day as I painted on my porch. The view is astounding and I ending up painting for hours only to find I was painting to the beat of the song. I didn’t realize it at first until I noticed I was waiting between chords to add some fluff strokes to the clouds. I was waiting for the next beat to make the next stroke. Maybe that is only funny to me for it meant I was putting structure to my creative process. And here come those old philosophical tropes again. Bringing back the late-night conversations about freedom, free-spirits, no restraints, the…
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Creosote Bush Shot
Do you still have those pictures of me that you took in Big Bend? You know which ones. As I say that, I also know you have them for you never throw anything like that away. You have all the pictures of the women who wandered through your life, especially those who stumbled and fell. Pictures, notes, ticket stubs, letters, and ephemera. Memory clues, you always called them. Of course, these pictures are in a different class. I smile as I write that. You were taking pictures of Castellon and the yucca plants that were blooming. I had spread out a blanket and somehow my clothes slipped away. Something that…
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Not Ready to Tell This Part (New)
I was listening to music this windy morning and naturally hit upon one of “our” songs. If I said I listened to it twice, I’d be lying for it was not twice. Somehow, my finger must have accidentally pushed “REPEAT: LOOP”. For that song brought another memory. One I haven’t mentioned to anyone. It was one of those “Should I?” or “Should I not?” events. A decision to be made that still haunts. For I saw her once again, by accident, on a trip to Tuscon. I had gone to see my old biology professor who had retired there. He and I were sitting at the little cafe on Tanque…
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Getting the Night Over and Done (New)
(From one of those late-night phone calls) “I shouldn’t tell you this, Mikey, but sometimes I have no power to stop the truth from slipping out” she whispered into the phone. “Wherever the night finds me, I go to bed early. If I have to sleep alone, sleep without you. I want to get the night over with as quickly as I can.” There was silence for a few seconds. “Is there a song in there somewhere?” she asked softly. “I keep thinking there must be but I can’t find the melody .” She paused again and just as I started to speak, said “Don’t say anything, please. The truth…
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Her Name Was Jane
A woman I have known for a few months asked one day about “that woman who left that haunted look in your eyes”. She didn’t ask what happened to her. For some reason, she was just curious about how we met. She asked a couple of questions, each time referring to “that woman”. That woman had a name. Her name was Jane. Once, many, many years ago I took one look in a pair of green eyes surrounded by a mass of red hair and fell instantly in love. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that quick, but for sure I was thunderstruck at that very moment. We were dancing the first…
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Yield to the Foolish Tides of the Heart
Yield to the Foolish Tides of the Heart If truth must be told— and oh, how cruel truth can be— then let it rise like an untamed tide, drowning the years in waves of longing. For time has never dulled the edges of this ache, nor softened the weight of what was lost. I drift, night after night, into the past, where golden moments still shimmer, untarnished, where your laughter lingers like a melody unfinished. Memories do not ask permission; they flood the quiet hours, unbidden, arriving with the hush before dawn, between the wreckage of reality and the dream of what could have been. If only… if only… We…
