This Night

I've been writing about this night for my entire life--I make one hell of a good book--but the lights

Image by joshbousel via Flickr

at the roller skating rink came on way too soon, and I couldn't find the girl whose hand I held all night to give her a goodbye kiss... and I don't know if I'll ever see her again, except in my dreams.

Don't ask.

A Windly Whisper

The persuasive autumn wind prepares everything for a harsher winter breath.

Image by Joseph Brauer via Flickr

It flows through my hair, a mental weather vane, to show me which direction my thoughts will be carried. I stand with hands in pockets, grounding myself and leaning into a gale that forces instant penance by stinging my eyes. There is no choice but to wince while I take in the view and seek objectivity. From such a height, I can see much of the world, but less of myself.

When the wind points towards You, I send my love.
Mental pictures of places with you,
Words that I will only say to you,
Heat from the hearth of my heart;
To keep you warm until you’re no longer alone.

I know, but do not want to believe, that the direction of the wind will not change all winter. It comes boldly from desolate lands in the north, carrying a frigid message to the south. Hopefully, my thoughts carried with it will melt the ice that weighs upon your wings, allowing your thoughts to fly towards me with the spring migration.

Memories, like firewood, are stacked high within a few paces of my fireplace. I have summer days to recall, when we skipped through tall, verbal grasses, holding hands, unable to refrain from giggling—our sonnet and nursery rhyme in one. I have autumn to relive, the beginning of our catharsis, good fodder to contemplate why our conversations abruptly turned into unfulfilled promises, and ultimately, into this silence. Four times per day, I will agitate the coals, wrestle with the tender, and rebuild my love for you. I pray to Love that my fuel lasts longer than winter’s stay.

My intuition says, “Our need to skip through time wore down our ability to skip happily down the sidewalk of life,” and I don’t disagree with it. There is an order to all things; we can’t juggle the seasons, only listen to what they tell us. We hold no true power outside of what's inside of us, and what's inside speaks the language that we must learn. So I stand here, ears growing colder each day, listening as the wind whistles its tale, and predicts our future.

35/52: The Old Man and the Sea

35/52, The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway, 3/5 Stars

Hemingway did a fine job of writing in a style that flows similar to the way we speak, which makes this book very easy to read and ground-breaking in its time. Similar to The Old Man and the Sea, I've tried to make my tale easy to read, but also provoke deep thought. I only give Hemingway 3 stars because he doesn't provoke much deep thought, for me, in this tale. However, it's a great quick read (especially since I'm a few weeks behind in my goal).

35th book read in the 43rd week of the year. Yikes.

GOAL: 52 books in 52 weeks!

Book #34 = "Now & Forever" by Ray Bradbury, 4/5 Stars
Book #33 = "Coincidence" by David Ambrose, 2/5 Stars
Book #32 = "The Discreet Charm of Charlie Monk" by David Ambrose, 2/5 Stars
Book #31 = "Fish" by Lundin, Paul, Christensen, & Blanchard, 4/5 Stars
Book #30 = "Purple Cow" by Seth Godin, 3/5 Stars
Book #29 = "The System's Bitch" by John Wright, 3/5 Stars
Book #28 = "Twitter Power" by Joel Comm, 3/5 Stars
Book #27 = "The Cluetrain Manifesto" by LLSW, 3/5 Stars
Book #26 = "What Kind of World Do You Want?" by Jim Lord, 5/5 Stars
Book #25 = "The New Rules of Marketing & PR" by David Meerman Scott, 4/5 Stars
Book #24 = "Outliers" by Malcolm Gladwell, 3/5 Stars
Book #23 = "Lisey's Story" by Stephen King, 1/5 Stars
Book #22 = "My Favorite Place on Earth" by Jerry Camarillo Dunn, 4/5 Stars
Book #21 = "Wisdom 2.0" by Soren Gordhamer, 4/5 Stars
Book #20 = "Oath Of Gold" by Elizabeth Moon, 5/5 Stars
Book #19 = "The Age Of Engage" by Denise Shiffman, 3/5 Stars
Book #18 = "What I Wish I Knew When I Was 20" by Tina Seelig, 4/5 Stars
Book #17 = "Animal Farm" by George Orwell, 4/5 Stars
Book #16 = "Divided Allegiance" by Elizabeth Moon, 3/5 Stars
Book #15 = "The Curious Incident of the Dog..." by Mark Haddon, 2/5 Stars
Book #14 = "The Sheepfarmer's Daughter" by Elizabeth Moon, 3.5/5 Stars
Book #13 = "Love Is The Killer App" by Tim Sanders, 4/5 Stars
Book #12 = "Fight Club" by Chuck Palahniuk, 4.5/5 Stars
Book #11 = "The Time Traveler's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger, 5/5 Stars
Book #10 = "The Finder" by Colin Harrison, 3.5/5 Stars
Book #9 = "Veronika Decides To Die" by Paulo Coelho, 1/5 Stars
Book #8 = "By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept" by Paulo Coelho, 3/5 Stars
Book #7 = "Stiff" by Mary Roach, 2/5 Stars
Book #6 = "Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, 1/5 Stars
Book #5 = "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, 3/5 Stars
Book #4 = "Eleven Minutes" by Paulo Coelho, 2/5 Stars
Book #3 = "The Good Guy" by Dean Koontz, 3/5 Stars
Book #2 = "My Ishmael" by Dan Quinn, 2/5 Stars
Book #1 = "The Zahir" by Paulo Coelho, 3.5/5 Stars

READ MORE!

Dear Dreams... WTF?

Our mortars couldn't hit shit, and our captain let us know about his frustration before he forged

Image by knurdle via Flickr

his own makeshift latrine beyond the first treeline of the woods to our six. I looked at her, a stern look that told her I'd trained her better than what her performance had showed on this day. The smell of launched ordnance burned my nostrils. The fact that we'd not hit our targets was going to burn my ass if we couldn't get it right. We adjusted our angles, fired... WHAM! An enemy cannon turned to junk on impact. Readjusted for a new target... WHAM! A squad of army men wobbled, then rolled down the length of the fallen log where they'd been placed... direct hit... we raised out arms in celebration as our Captain returned from the woods and asked, "What'd I miss?"

Dibble-dee-doo.
Dibble-dee-doo.
Dibble-dee-doo.

I was about to say something to a friend when he impatiently stood up from his stool at the bar and walked off, presumably, toward the restroom. Conversation continued with those that remained, though I know not what we spoke of. Before he returned, another friend came and sat in his place; it wasn't a welcome surprise, for we'd had words in our past. He held out his hand, without saying a word, nodded his head as if waiving the white flag, then offered his hand once again...

Dibble-dee-doo.
Dibble-dee-doo.
Dibble-dee-doo.

I reached across the bed to find nothing but emptiness. The normally cool covers--cool because there wasn't often a body to warm them--still held the heat from her body. I was too tired to use all five senses, so I focused on listening to see if I could hear her in the house. Nothing. Damn. Not again. I faded back into sleep. A few hours later, I was startled by a closing door. Oddly, I was awake enough to jump out of bed and see if she was still in the house. A toilet stool was still running, so I pulled the lid and corrected its state. In the kitchen, wisps of steam rose from a full cup of coffee and the crust from a piece of whole grain toast sat on a plate next to it. She wasn't to be found. With my hands on the cold marble countertop, I contemplated what I'd done to cause her to break one of my most important rules: whenever we meet or part, we must hug and peck. Had she done so in my sleep and I'd missed it? Doubtful. I don't sleep heavily as I approach morning, so I'm usually aware of my surroundings. I wouldn't have missed the affection. So, I slipped on my trainers and went out for a pre-dawn walk. It was a long one, miles in fact, and I somehow I ended up sitting in the yard across from her house... I longed for one glimpse of her, I'd missed that glimpse before she left. I need one now because it felt like it might be the last one I'd ever get. She sat in her car, engine still running, parked in her driveway, as if she wasn't sure that she wanted to go into the house... like going into her house meant that she would be making a decision that she could never change once it was made. She'd left my bed, that was one life, and inside of her own door was another life. There was no way to live them both; she had to choose.

She had to choose! I jumped up from my seat and ran up to the curb across the street from her. Fortunately, I wasn't so blind as to run out into traffic. Though it was a residential neighborhood, the street was presently home to a constant stream of cars, attempting to cross would have been detrimental to my health. I could see her. I screamed her name, but nothing I said could overcome the pitch-varied drone of passing automobiles.

And then, I woke up. I only slept four hours last night, and the entire time was fraught with these intense segments. Oddly, I feel rested, but I doubt that will last long before I have to slip back under the covers.

I need to make progress on the challenges in my life before these dreams get any more stressful.

Dear Dreams... WTF?

The Crowded Path to Nowhere

I saunter amongst the gathered masses,
Small though they be,
And I am unseen.
Invisible to those of gender difference,
And gender neutrality.
We can gather,
Visible and invisible,
When we don't care about why we're gathered.

I have no place to be,
Other than here,
Where they bark, stomp, shuffle, and yelp.
Yet, in all their clamor,
They still do not see,
The reality,
Or me.

Wine is my companion--
Man's best friend--
It has been with me when I've stood on stoops,
Shouting poems memorized.
And with me at times,
When no other ears would listen.
It sits here,
By my side,
When no other could.
Could?
The cold reality of couldn't,
Is usually,
The more wicked reality of wouldn't.

I have no choice,
But to push on by standing still.
I am short of breath,
But long in thought,
The former provides evidence,
Of how far I've strayed;
Too far from my own path.

We sit down to rest,
Wine and I,
On a rock wall meant to contain fury,
But seldom asked to do so.
A cigarette, a pink purse, and a hurried brow push closer;
A living example of how far we've strayed,
And of what we should have long ago contained.
My toes dangle from my perch,
My path, above hers;
An innocent imposition to her childish journey,
Toward materialistic insignificance.
The distraction causes our eyes to briefly meet,
"Though I've taken this moment to rest,
I am not your place to rest."
My thoughts serve reminder:
There are many paths,
By which we can stray.

There are others,
Who intend to be unseen.
But I see them,
And thank them,
For the warmth that their fires provide;
Gypsies on the water,
Keepers of the Light.
The flames captivate,
Though that is not their intent.
While most look down into the spark,
I look up as the smoke starts its journey.
We must do more than see The Light,
We must be that Light,
And drift away to places,
Where we marry our dreams.
Ever after.

We aren't meant to be here--
Pseudo-artistic malevolence--
Lapsed into belief that the only treasures we might find,
Are discarded copper and silver bread crumbs,
That no longer lead us back home.
If we look up,
Instead of down,
And if we're lucky...
These pyres will burn,
In our names,
After we go.

Remind me to remind the world,
That we can still be children,
Without being childish.
The wind and the snow don't offend us,
The give us opportunities to sail,
And to sled,
Until one Light sets,
And another beckons us home.
Be forewarned,
Lest we forget,
Then find ourselves back,
On the crowded path to nowhere.