No Words

Words seem less adequate as life goes on. Oh, I don't think I'm losing anything. Not yet. Not much. It's just that my desire to communicate requires so very much more than any vocabulary that I'm likely to put together in this lifetime.

If I were Bo Diddley or Gauguin, Houdini or Mozart, maybe I could express what I have to tell you. It comes in light rays through the cosmos and it is stored in hearts and stars and museums. You can find hints and traces in oil slicks in rain puddles and you can hear it when the wind rustles in the palm trees.

I know that it's about love and I know that it changes color. Kids know- some of them. Animals and poets and scientists sometimes seem to get a glimpse. On the continuum of truth, it hides in the heart and in the soul.

Turns out, there's nothing funny about peace, love and understanding. The very idea surely makes me smile, though.

My Worry Bucket

It occurs to me, at this stage in life, that my worry quota is somewhat under my control. My level of angst, anxiety, regret, dread seems to be independent, for the most part, of the actual circumstances in front of me. Behind me, too.

It's far too late to die young and I have already failed, by most standards, personally and professionally. Don't take that statement as an attempt to elicit pity. If I had it all to do over, I would fail more spectacularly. I certainly didn't do it Sinatra's way.

My fret meter generally stays at a tolerable point and I seem to have some bit of control by herding my memories to love that I've known. 

Oh, I still worry about every orphan. Every prisoner. Every soldier. I continue to lose sleep over that one-legged seagull on Indian Rocks Beach when I was five or six years old. Somehow I've made it this far with my old pal, the blues, and I suppose we'll make it to the finish line.

That old line, I love you- I've thrown it around. I don't take it lightly, though. I love you.

Grownup Dreams

There comes an age where the twinkle of innocence disappears. If you're lucky, I suppose, it's replaced with a fire of passion. More often, it is supplanted with a cloudy, dead stare. 

Is there anything sadder than growing up? 

Keep your nose to the grindstone. Make something of yourself. There will be time for fun later. Work hard. Stay late.

Me? I've gone with gray hair and a cloudy twinkle. I may measure success with a different instrument. My nose has never come close to any grindstone.

My Friend Wants To Meet You

It's one messy story. We just all have our interpretations. Personally, I'm waiting for yesterday and I'm praying for rain. The time that I have wasted, worrying about the line between arrogance and self-confidence, would fill a lifetime. It has.

Everybody has some inherent fear of being alone and everybody struggles to get there. Now what?

Is it anarchy to roll through stop signs? How did science fall out of fashion? Everybody has time on his hands. Not many know it.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

Without Her

If she didn't exist, would I have to invent her? Yeah, probably. At this point, I know me pretty well. I keep reminding myself that my major misadventures have come from getting what I wanted.

My struggle is to simply re-claim my innocence.

Cable news would have made me cynical a long time ago if not for everything that I see in children's eyes. Those preachers on the radio dial would have ground me to a stub if I hadn't twirled the knob and found Little Richard. Politicians worked to steal my soul while dogs and cats saved my soul. I suppose I'm good for a few more laps.

Keep The Change

The first signs of silver are of little consequence. Then, bang- you're old. The good news? It's not so bad. Now, when I miss a patch of whiskers, nobody cares. Heck, nobody notices. Zipper down? What's new?

It's not exactly that I wear my irrelevance as some kind of badge of honor; it's just that I'm used to it.

Inappropriate behavior? Hey, I was socially awkward before socially awkward was a thing. I don't mean to brag... wait, yeah, I guess I'm kinda' bragging.

The fact that I don't work often, I can call semi-retirement, or something. Never worked much and never had that excuse before. Oh, I suppose there was a time, a very long time ago, when I could work as often as I wanted. I never really worked all that often then, either.

Honestly, I think I make a pretty good old man. I may have found my calling.

Between Loss and Grace

When there's nothing left to lose, is there anything left to learn? While I witness a crumbling culture on a deteriorating planet, I still see love in every direction. The gentle folks who taught me the ways of the world. 

With every loss, the cycle of life makes just a little more sense.

All of my faith sides with the mystery. All my hope.