Category Archives: Truth
I’ve had a lovely time here over the past few years.
The people that have come into my life because of blogging have made me laugh and cry; they’ve inspired me to continue this crazy and wonderfully mysterious craft called writing.
Tonight, I’m here to say goodbye to this old URL.
So many memories, so many posts.
I mentioned something wonderful and I promise not to let you down.
Change your URL immediately to my new home in the blogosphere.
Please stop by tonight and leave a comment or two, the only housewarming present that I truly want.
I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for making this place as magical as I always wanted it to be.
The best is yet to come.
I promise . . .
ps. if you couldn’t see the link, please visit http://badsneaker.net
Took this one from Malcolm X . . .
I’ll gladly take a Costner but Jesse Jackson?
My sister and I have noticed some changes in our father.
Whenever we talk to him about ‘old times’ (instead of just sitting there staring vacantly out the window) his eyes fill with tears. He’s not totally crying but something is definitely going on.
We wonder what’s really going through his mind?
It was this thought and some help from the band “Tears for Fears” that are responsible for the inspiration behind this post.
I didn’t plan on posting tonight but sometimes you just have to let some of your writing go.
the Size of Sorrow
Stain my mimeographed life
Wondering if today is some strange and future tomorrow
Time meanders away
some perpetual 36-hour day
But what is the size of sorrow?
a Fool on the hill
a sad silhouette of your absence
what remains breaks the heart of the borrow
Tomorrow is near
like an invisible tear
I’m wondering what is the size of your sorrow?
Wanted to check in and just let you know I’m alive and well.
I thank all of you for continuing to visit.
I’m trying hard to make my way around the bloghorn but somedays are just hell.
Once things settle down a bit, I will be back.
I have so much writing in my journal just screaming to be posted but . . .
Be safe and be well, folks.
See all of you in a bit.
This is so far out of control.
You would think the government would have stepped in by now.
You think Cape Cod was a bit slow last year?
Just wait . . .
I’m going to be out of here for a little bit.
Lots of stuff going on folks.
A few opportunities that I can’t pass up will inevitably keep me far away from the comfort of Smoke and Mirrors.
I do promise to return.
Just not sure when . . .
(I left you with a nice pic though, didn’t I?)
If there was a star in the sky
I’d wish upon it
better days for you . . .
But sometimes it feels the stars
are all taken, leaving the sky dark and godforsaken; a desperate space
this self-imposed penance is just that
as is the self-denial of a solace richly deserved
the light of the soul never dies
but occasionally flickers;
a sign that things do change
black to white, night to day
there’s a star in the sky
and I’m wishing on it
better days for you . . .
if you’re left wondering about the star
* i put it there
just remember I may need you to find me one someday . . .
I wish you faith, love and a belief that life goes on
because it does.
ps. so much for less posting, eh?
When I was 9 years old I had a favorite paperback book called “Stories from the Twilight Zone”, a book of short stories based on the skin and bones for sketches produced on the TV program of the same name.
I had a favorite called “Walking Distance”, the story of a tired middle aged business man that leaves the big city one weekend and simply drives in an effort to get away from his job and the Rat Race in general.
His car breaks down and he gets towed to a local garage for repairs when he sees a road sign for the town he grew up in years ago.
He asks how far it is to the town and is told, “It’s walking distance.”
He enters the Twilight Zone and walks into his hometown of 40 years ago where his mother and father are still alive.
It’s funny that I was falling for these kinds of tender stories when I was ten.
Yeah, I was a weird kid, huh?
Much of my writing loosely falls into the same sentimental category. Go figure.
I started thinking about the last good day I had with my mother and father, sadly the memory has vanished deep into the recesses of my own scattered mind.
The ‘moment’ did happen though when I came to a realization that I could never get those moments back; accepting the idea was painfully difficult but I knew it had to be done.
It occurred to me that I began saying goodbye to the individual pieces of both of them, various facets of their personalities, phrases they often used and the stories they loved to tell.
I remember fruitlessly trying to pull my mother back into my world with my “remember when” queries that all too quickly lost their magical powers.
If I’ve learned anything at all from their tragic situation it’s that life is about seizing moments, grabbing them by whatever means possible and never ever letting them go.
I only wish I’d realized that fifteen years ago, wish I’d accepted their fates sooner, if that makes sense.
But I’m only human and I desperately wanted to believe otherwise.
If I could have several more hours with both of them it would be spent on the back deck of the ‘Goodbye House’.
It would be a warm but comfortable summer night with nothing but a cricket soundtrack and a deep, orange creamsicle sunset off to the West.
My father would be standing by the grill wearing his signature wrinkled Bermuda shorts (or were they seersucker? God forbid), sans shirt with his pot belly exposed to the world with a can of Busch beer in his hand as he flipped burgers and hot dogs.
My mother would be flitting around the kitchen like some culinary Tasmanian devil putting the finishing touches on one of her ‘signature’ desserts.
We wouldn’t be talking about anything in particular; it would just be like it once was.
But it would be different to me because I would mentally file away and lock every smile, every laugh, and every taste and smell living inside that one bittersweet summer evening.
And I would remember all of it again, if I had one more chance.
Maybe the truth of the matter is that those memories are never very far away; in fact they’re easily accessible because wherever I am, ‘home’ is always close by.
Actually, it’s walking distance . . .