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.
Currently in the midst of a juggling act between work and writing.
Posts may be a bit scarce over the next few weeks but then again who knows?
I’m keeping the details close to the vest for now as far as why I’m busy.
Know that it’s all good.
I’ll continue visiting my favorite blogs but posting will be less.
Don’t be upset.
btw . . .
Got a very nice linkback tonight.
Thanks, DF, much appreciated.
If a post of mine can make someone write one, how cool is that?
All for now folks.
The writer in me has now left the building . . . kinda like Elvis.
For now . . . uh-huh . . .
Guinness, my male Bengal, has told me no more posts until I visit some people on my blogroll.
He says I should be more of a giver.
That’s the way he rolls, I guess. (right now he wants me to give him a treat)
Yeah, he is one hep cat.
Have a serene weekend, folks.
See all of you on Monday.
Got a good one on the backburner.
Guess where Michael is tonight?
Can you smell the sausage and onions?
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 . . .
Be back with all of you in a few days.
Busy weekend and I need some sleep.
The comments are appreciated as always.
I will catch up.
Until next time, a very special thank you to AMR for this
I remember, Mom.
(3.30.28 – 3.30.08)
Missing you, as always . . .
The average cost per school year at a private college is a whopping $45,000.
Owwwwww . . .
Talk about a comic strip rooted in reality.
My thanks to Grimm for the wonderful previous post.
My hope is that you’ll drop by and say ‘hi’ every now and then.
Thanks for all the great comments as well.
I still find myself laughing when I think of the term
“mattress monkey” . . .
I checked my “search stats” today and one caught my eye:
‘beer or smoke – which one is worse for you’
Hmmm . . .
I’d have to say neither.
What’s way worse is too much Klaus Nomi . . .
Too much Nomi will eventually fry your brain.
It’s Charlie Chaplin meets Gary Numan
And then some . . .
Yoiks. (or Yolks)
Happy Easter, folks.
No happy and snappy eggs for you. Sorry.
Hopefully, I’ll see you all back here next week.
peace, out . . .
I’m sitting cross-legged on a mysterious and deserted beach with nothing but the sound of the incoming tide.
The ocean is dark, brooding and occasionally offers up a glimpse of a dying whitecap. There’s a slight breeze but for the life of me I can’t tell if it’s warm or cool, it just is.
The full moon is partially blocked by the numerous passing clouds but there are intermittent flashes of light, possible thunderstorms that illuminate the wide expanse of beach before me.
I can almost see the curvature of the earth near the horizon.
The sky begins changing day to night, night to day and the passage of 24 hours is not unlike the second hand of some diabolical and uncontrollable timepiece.
The wind begins to scream and I realize that I’m slowly beginning to disappear, grain of sand by grain of sand. I am but a slight aberration in the ground below me.
The image of a weather-beaten sphinx flitters around my dreaming subconscious mind.
It’s then that I see the shadow of a street sign of sorts in the water, roughly 10 feet from the shore. I squint hard trying to see it during the brief intervals of light.
It says “5 miles to Vandmere”, a place I’ve never heard of before.
According to Google, it doesn’t exist; and by the end of my strangely epic dream,
nor do I.
Maybe it’s a place I’m just not supposed to find.
I’m open to any interpretations.
One freaky ass dream, folks.
Should you see any signs for “Vandmere” email me a picture and send directions.
Maybe I should check it out . . .