by

eyes open

cropped-weezProfile1.jpg

When traveling it seems my soul lags behind. It’s been different since the event. Sluggish, my body follows at a distance from where my mind believes it should be. But maybe it is catching up.

I am awakening. Spring is coming. It is.

And I will walk barefoot in the grass with all the grace I can muster.

by

Check

It’s a cane day. Even before I open my eyes, I know. Human barometer. Looking for patterns: dry days? wet ones? warm? cool? cold? changes to any or all? Afraid to admit it, but maybe I am finally aging.

Which is not the same as growing up. Heck no.

by

landslide

This year I resolve to have fewer strokes.

Sometimes I think it was a bigger deal for those around me than it was for me.  Brushes with mortality are.

On a camping trip we played hide and seek in the night rain. I jumped over a low stone fence. Next thing I knew I was hanging over a fast river. My friends pulled me up. There was am-I- dying? Then I was not.

There was that headache and teetering, hands guide my way like some toddler cruising furniture just to get to the phone. There was am-I- dying? And then I was not… Just foolish direction tangent to my desire.

It was a big deal. At this year’s end there are new faces. There are also some who did that mortal coil shuffle. Dances.

by

Area of Effect

There was that horrible time.

It was after that great bit, and before the other great bit.

It’s a matter of bookending. At what point does one measure the beginning and end of a trajectory?

What if the closing shot was Aidan being put in my arms?

Or maybe it was the quiet, “It’s too late.”

No, it’s sitting by the Mediterranean soaking in the sun, whiling away the hours until I meet Ivoz.
No, that’s a beginning. “Do you have to leave? Stay another night.” Close scene on a train, eyes closed. The skin remembers.

These notions of endings — start and stop — are constructs.

Awfully self-centered point of view, isn’t it? But this is a first person narrative. That babe in arms is a young man with his own trajectory. My ex survived that crushing simple sentence. I no longer know what his day to day is. I wonder if Ivoz remembers me? But I digress.

Trajectories. Lines extend and intersect. Arcs. Sines. Tangents. Hyperbole. They radiate from each encounter. We effect one another. I imagine my absence, or for that matter, their absence would make a difference.

Too late or early to complete this thought. It’s enough to start.

There was a Big Event. But maybe it was not. Maybe it is just an event, because we’re still in it.