Wisconsin

   It is a bitter cold night. Will there be still, frost covered robins on the branches of the old walnut tree in the morning?

Lovely Lost Things

   It sprawled there, ravaged by neglect, grayed wood, crackling paint of a a shade that might once have been near white clinging only where the mold held it in place, blank square eyes looking out at the uncaring avenue. Here a bit of ornamental trim, there the broken teeth of a shattered rail showed that it had once been loved. Now it was only another blank spot in a dying city.
   Passersby never looked directly at it. Motorist that found themselves waiting at the adjacent stop sign felt uncomfortably impatient. Every window had been broken, and wire striped, but these things had been done in a perfunctory haste. Urine pasted a single room on ground level rooms, a handful of beer cans, and a single rusty tipped needle lay on the floor nearby. A careful observer would have noticed that the local strays never came near the place, but there was none to paused and look.
   When the moon was out, and in that lost city its light was the only light on the street, and no living soul was about, the dust would stir, and whorl down hallways, and through empty rooms. Windless sighs, creaking that would pass ever up the broken staircase, and along the upstairs balcony sounded then, but no one ever noticed the ghosts that crowed that city of the dead.

The Same Damn Thing.

   Fingers on keys, words, writing, I've started a hundred journal entries this way. It breaks the ice. I've certainly been frozen over. It isn't that there aren't stirring down deep, just that they've been left to flow by unseen. The words aren't flowing yet, That, what I just wrote, was crap, metaphor, edited for some unseen reader, sweet poison of the mind.
   Rusty typed out my own thoughts today. There was just a moment, looking, seeing, morning sun poured gentle across the snow, orange cut by blue tree shadow. It was breath, air in, air out, but I was there and for that span alive and awake. I felt a touch of shame, not even being able to say how long since the mood was on me, and see another man typing out my own unspoken thoughts.
   It's the longest night, as dark as one can be. Even the moon will be eclipsed just pasted Midnight. There's a fire burning here in the coffee shop, and I've an easy feeling on my heart. Maybe it's that a good woman loves me, that I might just love her too. Maybe it's just that the World isn't such a bad fit, all on its own.
   Cars are passing in a broken stream along Main. At first it seemed odd, but it really isn't so late. That the sun has been down for two hours simply gives that feeling. Their head lights are sharply clear. All the world past the glass front of the shop is that way, crisp to the eye, almost painfully so. The flags at City Hall are caught in a warm South wind. snow melt glistens in the streetlights.
   The wind will be shift to from the North, and cold air will be coming with it. It will be dangerous to be out by Sunday morning. I've sent messages to Heather, Kyp, and Chris, referring to the mystic, snow, and the lengthening of days. Three conversations that have wandered for years with three very different friends. thoughts caught in whorls of there own momentum, echos of an original thought, that have taken on lives of their own. Is my mind that stale, or is this how others speak. Is it a trap that we all fall into?
   I stumble. It's pitfalls like that which have caged my thoughts for a lifetime. Steve, a simple man from work, comes to mind. He will argue with himself, if he can't find another to offer up his case, as a lawyer would before the bar. The same disputes from his past come up, again and again. Like myself, his thinking is channeled along worn paths. I've fought this for years, but find myself saying the same words, thinking the same thoughts, trapped in a stale repeating conversation. I bore myself. God knows how tedious I must be to others.
 

Damnedest Thing

   I have someone new, a beautiful girl in a woman's body. She's so very young in her heart, that I want to think of her as delicate. Then, it occurs to me that treating anyone that way might well encourage a sense of helplessness. The poor girl has had enough of that sort of encouragement.
   It is something new for me, to be the recipient of earnest, whole heated affection. I've been lusted for, used, and more often received a combination of those two, but not this sort of gentle care. I am humbled by it.
   It's a new world for me. I've always want just this sort of affection, kindness, care. It is just that I had almost stopped believing in it.
 
   I am getting ahead of myself, ahead of the moment. The moment is sitting here in the coffee shop. A cool clear sky has blown in from the Northeast. The afternoon sun is chasing me across the table, working at blinding me as i type. O'keefie is still in the park in the town square, the fountain still runs. Though nearly half of the trees have turned, those in the park show green leaves.
   I am wondering why I don't feel happier. There is an emptiness, and I don't understand it.

   I've gotten out of the habit of writing. I do dabble, a little in the notebook, and the occasional post on FB, but the daily ritual is gone. I have been feeling the absence of it, without knowing the cause for the feeling. Reading a few pages from the old blog Paperback Writer reminded what it was like to write every day. So, I'm back.
   There is the old question, who is it that I'm writing to? There is a trick to that, and a danger. I remember why I stopped trying to write in my twenties. Every thing I put down was crap. It had been pasteurized by a personal censor, sanitized for a reader who was a judge. My early journaling an apologetic, the worse sort of writing, free of honest feeling.
   Today I am writing to a stranger, to you. I am going to spill it all out here, what I actually think, and feel. I encourage you to judge me any way you like.

The storm rages outside, Tsuru no Sugomori wiothin.

New home

Milti is dead, so I'll be landing here.

...

Testing, testing, just seeing if anyone is out there, before I close this site down.

Who is a friend

Some days it is just a distance that I share with a friend, they tired of me, me tired of them, but the line is still unbroken, When roots of things are deeper than the surface cuts, then I am glad for that friendship.

The moon is out, near full. I looked to see if she was up to her old tricks, but no. Tonight she is just a pretty ball of rock.

It's a quiet. The owl hasn't been around for a while, or if he is he has had nothing to say. No sounds of traffic, nothing on the town's streets, no rumors from the highway. Just the cool night air, holding its breath, waiting, for what, I do not know.

The moon is out, near full. I looked to see if she was up to her old tricks, but no. Tonight she is just a pretty ball of rock.

It's a quiet. The owl hasn't been around for a while, or if he is he has had nothing to say. No sounds of traffic, nothing on the town's streets, no rumors from the highway. Just the cool night air, holding its breath, waiting, for what, I do not know.

Beneath the Old Dead Whimsy

May 26, '10 2:07 PM for everyone

The camwrack and belum were in bloom, and all about spring was come into the Vally.

"Pull boy, pull" said father, and the boy pulled with him on the yoke. Together they tore the earth with one staggered stride, followed by another. By midday half the south field was furrowed.

"Ohi, let's out of the sun for a bit," said the father, and the two went to the shade and lay there breathing heavy.

"Da, I'm hungry" said the boy.

"I know boy. Plow today, hunt tomorrow." was the answer. The older man reached over and patted the younger on the head.

They lay a while, watching in silence the blueness of the sky wheel overhead, passed the broad leaves. Then the father rose, and then the boy.

The afternoon was harder, blisters bled, hunger gnawed, but the earth was patient, and the plow persistent. Dusk caught them both by surprise. They looked over what they had done, and gave one another a satisfied nodded at the fullness of the days work. If things went well they would both live through this next winter.

On the way back to the cabin they came to a quiet place, where the belum grew thick, and an old dead whimsy hung over it all. An "X" was carved into the whimsy's bark. The boy touched the mark, then stood before a small nearby mound in silence. The father touched his head, and said, "Go and fetch a stone, and set it here.

The boy gave a little smile, and went quickly to the piles, for the day was now only a memory in the sky, and soon he would be left in dark. The piles were no place to be in the dark.

He went up, passed two stone lions, and onto one of the piles. There was a nice piece of squared stone, smooth lines carved into its surface with such purpose that the must once have had meaning. For a bit the boy studied the lines, wondering at their intent.

He lifted the cool brown stone onto his shoulder and carried it to the mound under the whimsy, by the blooming belum. Father had already left, and would be heating greens over the fire. In the last of the fading light the boy reached out and traced the lines on the stone. They would mean mother, he decided, and then the world was in darkness.

5-5-10

The rain is in the restless trees, telling them to hush and sleep.

I feel right with the world. The little voice that always asks, "if, if..." is quiet. Tonight if can wait until when.

@-(

“Writing’s easy. You just get a blank sheet of paper and stare at it until your forehead bleeds.”

-By some other fellow, who at least had this much to say, which is a damn sight more than I.

PS: For those of you are unfamiliar with @-(, it is the emoticon for "My forehead is bleeding. This is not to be confused with the symbol @-), which means "My fore is bleeding, but I'm happy about it," that is useally employed by descendants of William Tell and masochist.

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.