Evens and Ends

Since I do very little thinking, I try to make up for it with a lot of feeling. I suppose I do my fair share. Oh, wouldn't I love to have more control over all of it! 

Words? I don't love 'em. I surely won't waste my time struggling with them. I suppose I write because I'm desperate, or near desperate, to communicate. Now, I won't argue with a real writer who wads up sheets of paper and throws them in some wastebasket like a Jimmy Stewart character in an old black and white movie on TCM. 

I've never fought with anyone called an editor for cleaning up my mess. I have ignored orders for "two hundred more words." When a story is told, I'm done. Use a bigger picture.

Twist The End

When you get down to it, there are no happy endings. You bring me your romantic tale about them living happily ever after. I'll just add, "Until she died of scarlet fever." Or maybe, "Until he noticed the new receptionist at the office with the long legs and the crooked teeth."

Let me hold your hit song. You know, that happy one that your mom said should be a hit. I'll slow it down, way down. I'll sing it in a minor key and, if you let me hold it long enough, I'll add a verse about somebody hacking somebody up.

It's never over till the end.

THE END

Saddle The Spirits

Don't pray- hold on! Either you believe that there is a grand plan and a benevolent power has included you in it or you don't. Me? I believe it all. All of the good parts. I'm onboard where all of the belief systems intersect. 

Don't bring me any of your vengeful god stories. Don't pester me with your ideas of guilt, revenge, jealousy or hate. If you invest in war, I hope that you might reconsider your motives. The God that I know ain't on anybody's side. There are no good wars.

Now, if you want to sing about peace and love, charity, joy and compassion- friends, count me in.

Pray for peace. Search for truth. Settle for love.

Brazil Nuts and Freak Shows

Sometimes I do, then again, I think I don't. Folks ask me, "How do you make yourself sit down and write every day?"

Of course I know that what they're really wondering is, "If you don't have anything new to say, what keeps you going?"

Oh, I'm not offended. I wonder the same thing. You'll notice that I stop from time to time. Honestly, what draws me back is running across some ridiculous photograph that seems to need my head on it.

It took years of blogs for me to realize that I tend to think the same thoughts. My brain seems to be stuck on a loop. A limited loop, at that.

This endeavor takes care of my need to tell you that I love you. Seems to be a little less creepy than telling everyone individually. Here's hoping that it keeps me from being locked up.

I love you.

Obsessive, Compulsive Cowboys and the Cowgirls Who Loved Them

Once the stars blinded me and I dreamed in poetry. Now? Now I write to scare off sorrow. 

"What are you sad about, Ronny?"

"Whatta' ya got?"

She's been gone a year- actually, a year and a half. I walk around the block and I remember every walk that we took. Towards the end she wanted to ride in the car. 

This rum ain't working right.

Mysticism On A Spreadsheet

True ecstasy, for me, has always been a floater in the cosmos. I've never been able to focus on it for any extended period without it darting from sight. You can't look for it. You have to wait for it. When it comes, it comes on its own terms. 

Boy, do I remember the joy that came from catching lightning bugs in a jar! Of course I have those memories, too, of the dead ones in the jar the next morning. We always thought that punching holes in the lid would keep them alive.

Meantime, I wait.

Maybe I've Got Bootstraps After All

My luck never seems to run out. Seems to me maybe I was born with more than my share. The few problems that I have seem to come from my own actions. Now I'm capable of great self-pity and melancholia comes naturally to me. Even on the bottom, though, I'm aware of my fortune.

Now, just before dawn, the ghosts want to play. Oh, I suppose you could refer to them as memories. Dreams. When you're alone, semantics don't count.

All I know is I'm glad for the company.

Everybody Believes In Something

You know what they say- "There are no Episcopalians in foxholes." Something like that.

All I know is what I see on cable news.

Won't I be a happy so-and-so when this phase of history is history. 

You don't need to remind me that music is holy. Unfortunately the music business, not so much. Jump back!

She Dances With Memories

She was comfortable with friends who spent something close to a million smackers for their own birthday party. An ex-husband had explained that it's not how much money you have, it's how much they think you have.

Looking back, she was never comfortable with me.

You always think that you've got at least one more at bat. I suppose Roy missed Trigger every day.

Help! Quicksand!

What ever happened to quicksand? How about mercurochrome? Cooties? Oh, and crinolines- what on earth did we do with all that stuff that crinolines were made of?

What's become of taps on shoes? Switchblades? Jockstraps? Wax Coca Cola bottles? Moon discs? X ray specs?

As I understand it, there really is no such thing as "quicksand." If you mix the right amount of sand with the right amount of water, you'll end up with a muck that is unable to support weight. So I lost that amount of sleep between the age of seven and thirteen for nothing?

Luckily, Brigette Bardot movies came along and I quickly forgot about quicksand.

Mighty Big Shoulders

One of the privileges of growing old is noticing the shrinking distance between waves. Today, with a heavy heart, I detect the end of another dark age in our history. Something changed this weekend. Unfortunately, we pay a price in lives and innocence.

My beloved rock'n'roll served a lot of purposes. I suppose we all tend to regard our memories from a personal, selfish point of view. That beautiful music is the soundtrack to my past. First love, friends, loss, success, failure and every combination.

On a broader canvas, it blared through a civil rights rebellion. A sexual revolution. A peace movement. Assassinations. Watergate. Woodstock. A space race, hula hoops and the topless bathing suit.

Maybe I'll just hum Da Doo Ron Ron while love takes over and peace runs amok.

Butch Wax and Bumble Bees

Hate consumes beauty. I'm not bringing you any big news here. I understand that. Understanding your connection to everything else on the planet makes the very concept of hate ludicrous.

Love is the natural state, seems to me. Hate is the product of chemistry and biology. It is the vestigial tail of emotions. 

Nobody's vision of heaven has war. Greed. Hate.

The hippies were right. I knew it.

Until Somebody Gets An Eye Poked Out

By the time you finish school, you have been molded into something that society has in mind for you. Sunday school helped round off some of the rough edges for lots of us. I've struggled for a lifetime to get back what I could.

You can learn a lot about recapturing your legacy in the company of a dog or a cat. 

There's a reason that a dog doesn't want you looking into his eyes. You can see through to the soul if you know what you're looking for. Oh, you'll catch them looking into yours. They will always look away when caught, as though to deny it.

My gurus have usually had four legs.

Lucky Enough

Life is too short to spend much of it with people that don't mean much to you. Then again, everybody seems pretty special if you pay attention. Now, if I were you, I might disregard advice from the likes of me about paying attention. 

Oh, I don't seem to have any kind of disorder. I just choose to jump from one random thought to another. I'm not burdened with Nobels or Pulitzers but I'm pretty good to seat beside your crazy mother-in-law at thanksgiving.

Truth and love seem to be in short supply right now. Do your part. I love you.