Story Telling

There is nothing sweeter than song, and no singing sweeter than that which comes from that joy of living itself. No creature voices this better than the Rodin. Though it is contested by Magpies, that is only because they are contrary birds, and they are considered well refuted on this point.

One bright summer's day a young robin sat on the branch of a cherry tree and was singing in just this way. His notes were as pure as the joy in his heart and caught the heart of all that heard him, so that there was a silence all around save for his unfaltering voice. It was carried on the wind, and the wind delighted in the carrying of it. The airs were of a kind mood that easy summer day, and took the notes far and into the window of the house on the hill.

The golden haired woman paused just as her fingers reached to turn the page. She did not know why she put her book down, or why she passed through the door, or even why her feet carried her out into the day and into the cherry orchard. She found herself looking up at the robin, listening to him sing.

It was as if a spell had been broken, the enchantment of the world, of televisions, of Internets, and every list that had ever been made. She heard this bird's song, and it was like the first birds song, she was like the first woman, and everything was suddenly about her in dazzling clarity. She smiled.

Robins are cautious creatures, not given to idle fancies, as are some birds, but this poor robin looked down and saw the smile of the golden haired woman and knew he was in love. He sang to her, and as before his notes were strong and pure. He sang of the joy of perching in cherry trees, and flying across egg shell blue skies. He sang to her of the joys of being a young robin in love until it grew dark, then he grew silent, and the woman with the golden hair returned to the house on the hill.

The next day, after eating his fill of worms, and this was many for he had sung till exhaustion the day before, the robin began to sing. Hours passed, but no woman appeared. He wondered if he had only dreamed of her. It was late in the day, as she return home that she heard his song. She had almost forgotten it, had thought it just a dream, but now the work and driving, all the little tasks seemed to be the dream. She came out into the long shadows of the cherry trees to the branch where the robin sang, and stood listen until dark.

Each day she returned, and each day he sang to her. The sky turned and the stars wheeled. The robin grew old in the short span of robins, and he grew wise. He now knew the golden haired woman did not understand his words only the tone of his notes. Still her eyes cleared when she looked up at him and she smiled. He took pleasure in her, and she in him, though each was lost to the other.

Fall came, and with it the wind lost its good mood and it became cool and bitter. Then winter came, and the airs were cold and harsh. One day the robin was gone.

What liars make happy endings? What in ending is happy? The Golden haired woman went out that next spring and heard a robin's song, but knew it was not her Robin singing. She has her own song now. She sings of the joys of standing amid the cherry trees, of walks beneath a powder blue sky, and of the joys of being a woman in love, and she waits.

I here the Robin is in Leeds these days, and singing to a nice lady with red hair.

Why I still Need a Chair

I walk down town to pick up beer and a sandwich, and decided on the long way home, Vine to Hill, to Dewey Street.

Pine is a tidy street, neat brick homes from the Thirties and even older frame ones. It rises up Church Hill with a tamarack in one yard, a sumac in the next, and I think old magnolias covered in white blossoms near the top. At Ghost Boy's house there is a rabbit under his swing, another two houses down. They are wild hare, but not so wild as to bolt. Their backs are flecked with white spots, and mottled with tiny pools of red.

Part way up is an old rocker set out for the trash. Now I could use a broken in rocker, and have no lady folk to be riled with my taking it in. It is gray and comfortable looking, but I have to weigh the coast of taking it home. Now any fool would tell you that free rockers don't come along every day, and that evening walks do, but that is why they would be just any fool, for the saying of it. Walks, a good walk, where the world tags along whispering it secrets to you, and the evening sky hums with the turning of the orb into night, those are rare, and well worth the price of fifty free chairs. My feet make up my mind for me, and I continue up to Hill street.

It is a short street, tiny white frame homes from the Forties line it. They are neat and well loved, There is less clover in these yards than on Vine, and the trees are healthy mid-aged maples. Two old men stand in a small driveway disusing the troubles of the world.

I see a thunderhead catching the last light of the day on its anvil, orange and pink, and have to stand in the heat and watch it. In the West, above the wood, red glows on odd spots in the clouds, giving it the look of a great fire. The evening comes on, but no coolness with it.

My feet take me down onto Dewey street. I love to walk this lane, great old houses, some worn and poorly loved, with flaking paint on their ginger bread, others at least a reflection of there past splendor. There is the Imperial oak, bigger than any home, almost taller than any building in Town. Just beyond are the sister maples, giants in there own right. They will cover the whole street when fall comes. A worn out dog watches me with faded interest. A fat tabby floats across a yard, spots of white in the almost dark, giving me only a tail flick like a royal wave. Faint stars show where the clover flowers are hiding in the shadows.

At the end of Dewey is the grand house, not the largest, but made by someone who loved the building of houses, and knew how to show it. Brick and wood are set to working together, holding crystal windows, bright eyes looking out into the world. The great front window is never draped. Capped with etched panes and beveled, it is beautiful. It invites my eyes in to the warm light of the living room. A young girl is cleaning there. In one slow glance I feel the glow the place always gives, and I turn onto my drive.

The beer is warm and the sandwich cold, but I don't care.

Solstice

In the soft light of the living room the yellow wine looks clear. It is the third glass, the last in the box. The AC makes a racket, but I have to pause to even notice it. It is a cheap unit, and reminds me of the one in that first apartment on Oak Street all those years ago. Some things haven't changed.
Only just over two hours ago the last of the high clouds lost their glow. The window is a dark mirror now, my face a shadow with tiny squares of the reflected screen off my glasses' lens for eyes. The long day is over, shorter ones to follow.

6/21/09

Just now men with stones are going up against men with guns. My money is with the men with guns, but my heart is with the ones with stones.

Sales

Small concessions are made, inroads into your honor, until one day you sit wondering if you should use the death of a client to force a sale. Do you ship a post dated order with the dead man's name as a PO? The clock on the screen shifts from yellow to red, as the delay on this clients screen is noted by the computer's idiot brain. A tiny flag will appear on a report, ammunition angst you. You wonder what sort of monster you might just be. You spend the commission in your head. You think of how many bullets come out of the boss's arsenal if you close the deal. Then you work the essential math of conscience, "Can I live with this?"

A black and yellow wasp catches the sun as it hunts grubs among the leaves. Five descending notes are repeat endlessly by a single songbird. The air is warm on the skin until the slight breeze moves it, then cool. That breeze carries the scent of fresh cut grass.

What the hell

Gosh, you know, I feel really good. It's been a shitter of a spring, but the wreckage of assorted romances make a cheery glow in my rear view. Summer is here. My son is headed off to spend it with his Mum. That is scary enough, she is not the sort one usually trusts, but what the hell. He's set on it, and legally that's just how it is. Money, well there is no money, and even less is the likely situation, followed by court orders and garnishment. Hey, what's a body to do? Likely rent will still get paid, and food find its way to the plate.

I will find new ways to embrace the already spartan lifestyle, more introspection, less TV, eating out, and fancy things like telephones and new clothes. Simplicity, that's what I'm all about, yes give me the simple life. Fortunately I have cultivated a taste for more economical beverages. Did you know that cheep rum's flavor can more easily be hidden than cheap whisky's? New times, new skills.

There is still the writing and the art. Truth is, books and contemplation, time with my son, the companionship of friends, and creative pursuits have offered me some of my happiest times. Just as well, because, once I pay of the library fine, these will be the thing left in the budget.

So, why do I feel so good? I can't say, to tell you the truth. The cool night air comes in my window like clear wine, I am alive and aware, there is one last sip of wine left in my glass, if this seems to be enough, then it is.

Spoiled Grain

A bitter taste in my mouth, flat and starchy, I roll it round my tongue, drink it down. Stored behind the walls of Ur, taken to cool the throat after hard days work at Giza, it has been with us since we marked our first words. Simple men and kings have tasted it just as I do now. One last swallow spins in my cup, waiting for me to be done.

It's a quiet night. Even the highway is silent. There is still the faintest hint of tobacco from a neighbor who had smoked beneath my window. The computer hums. the fridge chortles. I think it's time to write a long delayed letter.

The Wind

The wind passed among the trees. She touched my cheek, tousled my hair, then paused. I closed my eyes and waited.

Found

I have posted on Yahoo360 for two years. They will close it in two months, so I will be moving on. It was a clunky old relic, but I stuck with it because of the friends I made there, and I hope some you will be reading this.

Looking back my 360 blog I am amazed to see that there were 214 posts. That would be over 50,000 words, with hundreds of comments. I had meant to leave Yahoo Answers, in fact my first post, now deleted, was titled Why I am Leaving Y!A. It's only taken two years, and I am almost weened from Y!A's R&S site. Who knows, maybe I'll be the first to actually quit it.

I have found myself in blogging, trapped on the page, unaware that I had been writing myself out. I've also found friends and have spent many a pleasant evening writing and reading the work of others. It was something wonderful, and hope to continue the pursuit here on Google.