Bulletproof Exteriors

Brittle Thing and Second Chances
Well, as the clouds start parting on all of the stress the last few months, I am finding that healing physically is a slow process. We have so many friends fighting illness, I don't think I understood the long tail of being very very sick.
Her:
The hospital stays have born fruit in getting her back on her feet. She sleeps a lot—blood infections demand it.. The ABX are doing their job and will hopefully kill this bacteria once and for all. The doctor says it will never be gone, that she has to control her blood glucose levels in order to starve the little bug and allow her body to keep it at bay.
I didn't realize how neglectful she was to her health. Thinking she could power through and just be fine. Which is clearly possible when you are younger and more rubbery. But, we're people of a certain age now and have to think in more brittle terms. So far, she's been very serious about it, keeping the BG at or close to 100. If she can keep that up. We'll be fine. At her worst, it was hitting 300. And I'm pretty sure she was averaging in th 150-200 range for years.
She’s always resisted medication, but finally agreed to try Lexapro to help stabilize her moods. She doesn't manifest emotionally like I do. She is generally much more even, at least externally. I think that's a communication breakdown and not a true sign of emotional intelligence. If anything, I would really benefit from an ability to express how she feels about things. About me. So, maybe the SSRI will allow her to find some peace and happiness that she has been missing.
I hate that I'm learning bout all of this. :–/
Him:
Blood pressure is still a WIP. At its worst, it hit 212/160, which was crazy. I should have gone to the ER. It was the night the US bombed Iran and it sent me into a panic attack. Since then, Iv'e doubled my Metoprolol to 10mg and started Lisinopril again. Metoprolol stops release of some enzyme that lowers my heart rate (which wasn't bad, but is now better) and he's stave off the panic attacks. The Lisinopril has some interaction with the blood vessels by relaxing them, giving the blood a wider pipe in which to flow.
I started the second drug three years ago, but after losing weight and starting a daily exercise routine, I stopped taking it. So much for being elastic. Now I'm hooked for life.
I have one thing the doctor is checking with my heart, something about a dragging valve. I am pretty sure this was looked at before in the early 2000's and will turn out to be nothing. My plaque levels in my arteries are acceptable, though could be lower. Blood sugars are reasonable, though not terrific. And cholesterol is low enough. I'm essentially about as healthy as a man in his 50's who neglected his health for 30 years can be.
Maybe all that weekend warrioring on mountain bikes and kayaks and hikes paid some dividends after all. If nothing else, at least I look better. It's my mental health that is the real challenge. I started Lexapro about a month ago and it seems to be helping. I'm certainly feeling much better these days. Some of that is thanks to mental exercises and how I spend those energies when I wake up in the middle of the night. I've tried focusing on upbuilding things. Positive thoughts. But inevitably, my mind can't stave off the negativity. Some nights, I still think of the people who made me feel whole once. I've found writing and fantasy are the two places where I can genuinely get lost. So I read, I write or I daydream. Anything too grounded in reality, always circles back to the anxiety.
I have the kind of mind that has to stay in drive all the time, or I get into trouble.
There are some other things that will help with all of this. One is a move. We should have pulled that trigger two years ago. The shift in work has made that untenable in the short term unless I can find an actual decently paying job. Another is a good vacation. But that seems like something again that will have to wait until she's healthy enough too travel. I get the sense that she doesn't care much for the road trips. Which is a shame. I spent so much time and money ensuring we could have everything we needed and to just not utilize that is a little heartbreaking. I'd love to just drive around constantly.
Sometimes, you have to find a way through mismatched opinions.
But, that's an argument for another day! For now, we're on the road to managed health and will hopefully find ourselves in the fall having come through the worst of it and getting back to our old selves.
I sure miss those people. But maybe they’re still in here somewhere, waiting to be found again.
#health #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing
There was an attack last night. An aerial bombardmenr unexpected and wrecking.
I used to be so angry. Now, I just get devastated.
We had a fight last night. I don’t know what happened. It was a busy day doing client work and she just flipped out.
Now I have a knot in my back.
Title
#childhood #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
Breathing
She said it softly— not as a confession, but as something elemental, like the wind admitting it moves the trees.
“Communicating with you Is as natural as breathing,”
From that moment on, he breathed her in— each word she gave, a lungful of meaning, each reply he offered, a quiet exhale of Hope for understanding.
But there was never a Need for explanation. No scrambling for the Perfect phrase. Just thoughts curving Toward one another like vines in the same wind.
Ideas drifting back and forth Like streams over stones That knew their way even If they didn’t understand The destination.
Now he sits, pen in hand, lungs still full of what she left in him, writing not to be heard, but to remember how it felt to be fully understood.
To be seen.
#childhood #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
Saturday Night Beach
I had a lovely evening. I decided to dust of my copy of Jaws and read a few chapters. I've always enjoyed the film and reading Benchley's original book far more so. The characters are richer and a lot of energy is spent on diving in to pasts and inner conflicts that the film just doesn't have time for.
Tonight, Ellen (Chief Brody’s wife) is throwing a dinner party. On the book she’s described as a former socialite who turned her back on the upper crust to marry a blue collar husband and embrace how the rest of us live. But, circumstances are beginning to remind her that she enjoyed some aspects of being the daughter of wealthy parents. So, she attempts tonight to recapture some of the feeling.
Her husband is less than enthusiastic, but supportive.
Making it even better: Fired up YouTube and put on an ambient video of 4-5 hours of Outter Banks footage. Blowing wind and beach sounds are the perfect mate to this novel.
Recommnd.
It stormed here today. I’m out for sunset and lavishing in the freshly-washed air, now cleared of the lingering burned jet fuel and diesel exhaust that builds between rains. We are awarded an especially beautiful and bovid golden hour this evening. The kind of light that makes even the most mundane scene a Maxfield Parrish landscape.
I can’t help but pause from my run to the store for my wife’s request of peanut butter and dark chocolate to enjoy with her hibiscus tea to soak it in.
It is the kind of evening that I wish I could have glide through. Silently slicing through midheaven with only the sound of the rush of the wind as I chase the sun to the horizon.
But, tonight, it will suffice to lean against the hood of my car and silently dream of places and people far away who I know would embrace the poetry of this moment and celebrate its stunning glamour.
Back home we slip in an episode of ‘For All Mankind’. It’s a revisionist history drama about the space program in the 1960s. It proposes that the Soviet Union got to the moon first and the story unfolds as the US becomes increasingly desperate to make its mark on history. In tonight’s episode, they have leaned in hard to send a woman to the moon in the early 70’s. So there are some terrible explorations of the social implications of that and how the women confront and overcome those challenges.
It’s a visually stunning show with top notch h talent and some of the best serialized storytelling if seen from the modern era.
Recommend!!! It’s on Apple+ and worth your time.
It is now late. We finished our program and stepped out for a walk downtown in the last hour of the night. We were both surprised at how active the downtown is tonight. Thought it is dominated by busy bars, there are a few restaurants and a vintage arcade drawing crowds too.
But we are only interested in stretching our legs and reliving old glories here. No time for a party tonight. And we don’t have the energy of if we did have the hours.
#childhood #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
First Light, Holy Light
You can never put down that which moves your soul.
Before dawn’s whisper, I rise— the sky not yet blue, my body still heavy with sleep and something else.
The road hums beneath me, empty but for headlights and thoughts I hadn’t said aloud in a long time.
Each mile was a prayer. Each turn a little more light.
I smile—because I know what waits. A day of light, of truth, of brothers and sisters gathered in joy.
And then— the faces, the warmth of welcome. The sense that I belonged without question, without condition.
But somewhere between the parking lot and the first song, my heart trembles.
Because she’s not here. And oh, how I wish she could be.
The program begins— scripture, song, faces turned upward, tears in my eyes for more than one reason.
I feeling the presence of God— yes— but I also—the absence of the strength of her embrace, her voice nearby me, Melodically singing.
Still, I sit with the ache. Let it come. Let it be part of this worship too.
Because love like that doesn’t disappear. It folds itself into moments like these— a memory in harmony, a heartbeat in the silence between words.
And as the light pours in through picture windows, I whisper a thanks. For truth. For hope. For the day to come— and for the one my heart still carries into every sacred place.
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
Golden Hours and Dark Chocolates
It was never just about the beach or the book or the moonlight. It was about who I wished could share it.
I had a lovely evening. I decided to dust off my copy of Jaws and read a few chapters. I've always enjoyed the film, but I’ve loved Benchley’s original novel even more. The characters are richer, and so much energy is spent exploring their pasts and inner conflicts—the kinds of details the movie, for all its brilliance, simply doesn’t have time for.
Tonight, Ellen (Chief Brody’s wife) is throwing a dinner party. In the book, she’s described as a former socialite who turned her back on the upper crust to marry a blue-collar man and embrace how the rest of us live. But lately, she’s remembering what she once enjoyed about the ease and polish of her old life. So, she tries to recapture a little of it with this gathering. Her husband is less than enthusiastic, but supportive. As husbands often are.
To set the mood, I fired up a YouTube video of Outer Banks beach footage—hours of ambient wind and waves playing in the background. The perfect companion for a novel about sharks and social tension.
Highly recommend.
It stormed here today. Now, as the sun sets, I’m outside savoring the freshly washed air, cleared of the burned jet fuel and diesel exhaust that always seem to linger between rains. We’re rewarded with an especially beautiful golden hour—the kind of light that makes even the most ordinary street look like a Maxfield Parrish painting.
I pause during my run to the store—for peanut butter and dark chocolate, per my wife’s request—to soak it in.
It’s the kind of evening I wish I could glide through. To silently slice through midheaven with only the rush of wind in my ears, chasing the sun to the horizon.
But tonight, it’s enough to lean against the hood of my car and dream of far-off places. Places and people who would understand the poetry of this moment, and share in its quiet, glowing glamour.
Back home, we slip in an episode of For All Mankind. It’s a revisionist history of the U.S. space program—what might’ve happened if the Soviet Union had reached the moon first. In tonight’s episode, NASA leans into sending a woman to the moon in the early ’70s, and the story explores the friction and breakthroughs that follow. Some of the social commentary is a bit on the nose, but the storytelling is top-tier. Visually stunning. Superb performances. Easily one of the best serialized dramas I’ve seen in the modern era.
Also recommend. It’s on AppleTV+. It’s late now. After our show, we step out for a walk downtown in the final hour of the night. We’re both surprised at how alive it is—bars buzzing, vintage arcades flickering with light, couples strolling the sidewalks. There’s a rhythm to it we didn’t expect.
But we’re not here to join the party. Not tonight. We’re just stretching our legs and reliving old glories. And that’s enough for now.
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
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Dever gives a comment today where he states that young men who are less attractive and less physically capable have an easier time staying in the truth because they don’t have anything else.
Field Notes from the Corners of a Monday Morning Mind
Firesides are for lovers and friends.
The day started early and after a poor night’s sleep. I managed to sleep crossways and pin my arm so that it was completely numb, waking me at 5.
I made the most of the early morning and got some writing done. It feels good to find a creative foothold again. I’m worrying less about life, the universe and everything.
It feels a little like the old me.
Close Call
I arrived to meet with friends later in the morning and a fellow named Clarence I’ve grown close to was feeling off. A longtime time friend who is a former firefighter noticed some asymmetry in Clarence’s face and movements. And so convinced him to go to the ER where they identified that he has suffered a stroke. He’s a great big powerful old bodybuilder who drove a cement truck for about 30 years. So he’s used to powering through things. That’s why he carried on for 3 days before going to the ER!!
He is admitted and being observed. I’m sure my wife and her sister are melting down a little. They are both concerned that’s in my future.
I hope he’s going to be okay. When I met him he was quiet and fragile emotionally, having felt very mistreated through his life. But like any abuse creature, patience and kindness gave him the confidence that not everyone is out to get him and over the course of five or six years he finally started coming out of his shell.
Today, he’s not an extrovert, but it’s a real joy to see him out all week long laughing and volunteering with other friends. It’s amazing what a powerful thing finding one’s confidence can be.
Convention
I heard some friends were able to attend their annual spiritual convention over the weekend. It’s very exciting to get the chance to attend. I lost touch with them, so haven’t heard what they thought, but it’s been refreshing to think back to our own attendance just last month.
One of the real joys in the year is talking about what we learned with one another. I know personally it was extremely challenging this year in a way I’ve never experienced before—but I’ve had some especially unique circumstances—I can’t imagine theirs was anything but as motivational and refreshing as they always are.
Jobsesrch
Our weekend didn’t give us the chance to see the new Superman movie. Hoping to find time today or tomorrow for that. I have a few job applications to follow up on this morning in the quest to make a living. The most promising is the. tv station gig. I think I’ve resolved that it’s a good doorway. If I can land it, it’ll be good experience to trade into something better in a larger market. I’m of the new opinion that my skill set just doesn’t have the appeal once did. Employers can find me younger and cheaper.
I want to regret my decisions. But, I’ve always put God first and that HAS to account for something. As a friend once said, ‘He never has, or will, fail you, Brother Mine.’
That’s such an encouraging thought. How quickly we forget our own value in the eyes of our Father.
🙄
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Dumb things I overheard today:
‘Young men and women who are less attractive and less physically capable have an easier time serving God because they don’t have anything else.’
‘He won’t change no matter how many times I tell him. I don’t know what to do. I guess it is what it is. But one thing for certain: he’s the problem.’
‘Well it may be that the less you have, the easier life is. But that seems like a missed opportunity… why not grab all I can?’
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Tonight
Enjoying amazing stuffed bell peppers and asparagus while we watch the 40th anniversary of Live Aid (1985).
Queen just roused us with a thrilling rendition of Radio Gaga and Bowie a wild edition of Hero’s.
We’re chilling now to ‘this is the sound of my soooooouuuuuul’ as Spandau Ballet does their best to move the crowd. To be followed by Joan Baez and Elvis Costello! And now—Phil Collins: Take A Look At Me Now.
There is good music still being made, but 40-50 years ago was a real golden age!
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She longed for him like the trees long for wind. To make them strong and serenade the creatures of the forest. Every day he was her first thought and though not her only thought through the day, he was there with the frequency of the wind.
— I love the metaphor here.
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Oh! Reader mine! There’s SO much i want to say— but the brilliant moon is low in the horizon out this window and sleep is starting to reclaim my weary mind. I pray today’s sunrise brings you blessings and peace. My heart is with you to succeed in finding peace and contentment.
May you have the day you need and deserve.
Love always,
Charlie
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
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I’m BRIMMING with energy this morning. I slept so well last night that I feel like two people!
Good thing! I finally got a little paying gig and it’s a doozy. We spent a week replacing heads from a shoot with AI generated versions and now at the very end, the client wants it converted to CMYK. NBD, except they threw in the curve of ‘make sure the max density doesn’t exceed 280%!
That means that of a possible 400% of ink coverage (4 colors can be a total of 100% each) no single place anywhere on the image can exceed that limit. So, I’m struggling to pull out 20% of the ink from the darkest places (there are a lot of them) without losing the rich blacks the image has going for it.
This used to be SOP for me, but I haven’t had to match color AND max density in 15 years! This is usually left to the printer to sort out.
But, that’s what being a pro is all about. Finding solutions.
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
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WOW! Two years already! AMAZING!!! I forgot—it's on my calendar. I hope they are fairing well. I miss them. And it is a great regret in my life that we had to miss it. 🙄😣
SE Me is doing okay. Not great, but surviving. So much has changed and grief is a much harder dragon to slay when it comes from multiple vectors. In the movies, the bad guys all attack the hero one at a time—but this feels like the whole gang all decided that was bad tactics, that it's much more effective to wage a multi-prong approach!
Motivation and anxiety are the big hurdles currently. But the anxiety is slowly getting handled.
Had last CO visit a few weeks go and— I'm not glad to see him go, but, I'm certainly looking forward to the next brother.
I feel like I'm not okay, but I am going to be.
I'm hitting my beats spiritually, but really only finding pleasure in personal study, the Bible and giving parts. The ministry has started to appeal to me again and I've had some really glorious days, but I'm still not to the point where I am eager for it.
Convention was odd. I usually get 6-8 weeks of a spiritual high, but the stresses we've been through cleared the air within a few days. :–/ It was mostly the hospital. She'd only been out for two weeks (or maybe three) when we went and I could tell it was really a struggle.
Some of the talks were just phenomenal and I feel like I know Jesus in a new light after the program. But, like, I was REALLY looking forward to the last talk on Friday 'What Does Jesus See in You?'— and it was good, but IDK what it was that didn't hit me in the heart. Maybe it's already feeling broken down? Or it is possible the delivery style or that I was tired, who knows. But those are usually the sort of talks that make me soar.
Et tu? Things okay with you?
Heartheart
Take care of yourself, time only goes one way.
Today was doctor-day! It was time for the anticipated echocardiogram. The short is: it looks like my heart is healthy.
The doctor was worried that my super high blood pressure would have created thickening of the heart walls. There is still a review from a cardiologist scheduled, but the technician, a veteran of 40 years reading echos, says she doesn't see anything alarming. Good news!
I've been so stressed about the whole heart thing. My dad had some heart problems and a bypass surgery in his early sixties. But there are some environment explanations for that. So while I likely inherited his high blood pressure, maybe not so much the heart problems.
It's a great relief. I think, no I KNOW I've been carrying some anxiety over what was to come. Heart surgery in your fifties really alters you next thirty years.
So, now I can focus on getting back to living. I need to find work and or a job, I have books to write and paintings to paint and we're both getting the sense that it's time to move again. Maybe we'll manage to find a beach house somewhere Though that feel like a two-home sort of thing.
For tonight, time to collect my lady and go see this new movie. Maybe you've heard of it. Something something Superman. It might turn out to be a big deal.
There’s a quiet cinema playing behind her eyes— stories she’s tucked into the folds of memory, each reel a reason she still believes in love, resilience, thunder, and surprise. She roots for the underdog, sings along when the storm howls, laughs like a woman discovering herself again at the edge of a perfect French kitchen. She sees the poetry in the misfits, feels home in road trip confessionals, believes that sometimes the truest line is the one whispered just before lights out. She knows that movies aren’t just fiction— they’re reminders. Of what we dare to hope. Of who we used to be. Of who might still be waiting in the wings, with popcorn, a blanket, and the perfect line to make her laugh mid-scene, mid-life, mid-thought.
I’m the folds of a mind bright with hope and possibility lives a passion for the flicker of dreams The reels unfurl a desire for love, resilience, thunder, and surprise.
I'm your entertainment director tonight:
tonight the drink of choice is Stella Artois.
Your playlist is
- Shout it out loud ( kiss)
- If I needed someone ( Beatles)
- Turn up the radio ( autograph)
- People of the South wind ( Kansas),
- There will be chances ( charlatans),
- Lila ( Oasis),
- I have the touch( Peter Gabriel)
- Private investigations( dire straits)
- That's the way ( led zep) and
10.fearless ( Pink Floyd)
after which you should watch replacements and laugh
And try not to think about tomorrow until tomorrow.
Dirty Roten Scoundrels Heartbreakers
The Replacements was VERY much enjoyed! What a feel-good story of overcoming the odds. Once you're part of something great, that sticks with a man! Langston WAS a stunner! I always love Gene Hackman. He kept giving me vibes of his character in Heartbreakers.
Well, DJ director... the evening was thoroughly enjoyed! I'm going to give tonight's playlist a final spin before retiring and make some notes for feedback.
May the night cradle you gently.
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Shout It: Defiant joy! Declaring 'don't hold back'! It makes me want to feel it all and celebrate the night. It is a party and I want to dance.
If I needed Someone: Sigh—it's finding longing in the hidden corners of my heart, feeling vulnerable. I leave my number on the wall—maybe I'll get a call. If only...
Turn Up the Radio: Emotional whiplash as the dial goes to eleven and I am a quiet nerd in high school again lusting for a Camaro and a hot date. I feel freedom and rebellion stirring. Cruising the strip and feeling electric as I stay out way past curfew, but am too timid to get into any real trouble.
South Wind: Makes me feel reflective and I think about the past. Where I'm from and who I have become. Accepting that journey and my own decisions but not wanting to forget the path, the people and the experiences that have brought me here. Chicks dig scars and glory lasts forever!
Chances: Oh boy! This one is inspired. It was one of the first songs you ever shared with me. I listened to it driving down a state highway in the middle of the night overcome with emotion. It still evokes this stirrings. Framed with optimism and style it builds hope and faith. It reminds me to look for traces and that there will be chances. For what? Time together if my first thought, but the concept applies to all of life.
Lyla: A rollicking crush. Big, with emotion written in neon, chaos, and I thrive. Lovely guitar rhythm starts us down the path and Gallagher's voice takes us on the journey of longing and want. Come for me and set me free, life me up and take me where I stand—I waited a thousand years for you to come and blow me out my mind.
Touch: Whoa. Gabriel, man! That driving rhythmic start... sounds like a heartbeat. Powerful lyrics combined with his hypnotic voice created a physical reaction. Feeling urgent and wantful. Physical, emotional, spiritual? Yes. Here you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair! :-o Forward 40 years after its release, humans hunger for connection more than ever. Electronics and social media damn millions to a life of loneliness while promising connection. Shaking hands and understand—touching grass is what we need. Touching each other. Hugs and kisses remind us we are real and worthy.
Investigations: Shift! This part of the night got heavy with thought. Shadows grew and I start to think what truths I'm not saying out loud. It's in a diary, this isn't a public inquiry... if you seek, you can find. But what? What is he trying to investigate? Who's dirt? His own failing relationship? Or is he just a private dick for hire? The sparse arrangement is terrific and perfect for the chill vibe atmosphere. It makes me want to sit in the dark and sip my beer.
That's the Way: Emotionally raw. Confrontation and confession of difficult truths that the singer doesn't want to accept or even admit. We all have these truths that we resist. Some are proper and some need to change. Some we just wish were different. Music feels easy and folksy, like he's talking to a young friend or lover. The line about the darker side of town stands out as significant. It's so exhausting to constantly be reminded how different we are. Or is he talking emotions? The mood is easy and chill, I feel like I'm coming in for a landing. My beer is empty and needs refreshing.
Fearless: I started with rebellion and brimming with energy, now I'm wrapping up with introspection and the final whisper to accept honesty. There is bravery in vulnerability. Hope is a powerful ally. I feel gentle defiance in this song. Def getting a soccer vibe with the chanting.
It's a journey from release and cathartic joy, to memory, wonder, sensuality, shadows and finally courage and honesty. WHAT a trip! I don't need all the answers tonight—just rest and renewal. It's allowed! I won't be afraid of what I am feeling. The Artois certainly helped.
4am. Something in the quiet wakes me. My dreams. Intense as it was, it slips away from me before I can make a note about its content. It wasn’t anxious or frightening— it’s frustrating when a potentially good story slips away before I can assign it meaning.
I go for a walk tonight is moonless and quiet. The world is asleep in the 4th watch of the night. Circadian rhythms all synchronized like a line dance of collapsed humanity.
There is a delicious breeze this morning. Perfectly tempered. Not too harsh with a temperature faintly reminiscent of the ocean. The trees wave at the starlight in celebration of an early morning workout.
They whisper, ‘Praise and honor to our Creator! The Maker of all things who dwells in the glorious heavens above!!’ And applied with their tendrils stretching skyward.
The sound and motion makes me think of ‘The Music Takes Me’ by Seven Bells:
I hear you in the trees Swaying as you sing to me Feeling as your heart Pulses through my weary body
The week has been a spiritual and emotional renewal when I discovered a secret oasis again. I feel like I am living once more. Little drops of concern and kindness create a chemistry of happiness and satisfaction that had even stripped away.
My only fear: can it last!?
I hope. I pray. Here in the dark, I can see the man I was in the distance— happy and excited fellow, brimming with possibility and energized everyone and everything around me. He is on a hilltop contemplating how he got lost and trying to navigate his way back by his Northern Star, his Polaris.
So. I will try to maintain this fertile ground and hope he can trace his way back home again.
I don’t know if you miss him, but I sure do.
4th Watch Reverie
The deepest thoughts spill into the darkest hours.
4 a.m. Something in the quiet wakes me. My dreams must’ve been intense—though whatever they were slips away before I can hold onto their shape. Not anxious, not frightening—just gone. It’s always frustrating when a potentially good story dissolves before I can assign it meaning.
4am. Something in the quiet wakes me. My dreams. Intense as they were, they slip away before I can make a note of their content. Not anxious or frightening—just elusive. It’s frustrating when a potentially good story evaporates before I can assign it meaning. I go for a walk. Tonight is moonless and quiet. The world sleeps in the fourth watch of the night. Circadian rhythms synchronized like a line dance of collapsed humanity. A delicious breeze greets me—perfectly tempered, not too harsh, with a faint hint of the sea. The trees wave at the starlight, celebrating the early morning stillness. They whisper, “Praise and honor to our Creator! The Maker of all things who dwells in the glorious heavens above!!” And they applaud with their tendrils stretched skyward. The sound and motion make me think of ‘The Music Takes Me’ by Seven Bells: I hear you in the trees Swaying as you sing to me Feeling as your heart Pulses through my weary body This week has been a spiritual and emotional renewal. I discovered a secret oasis again. I feel like I am living once more. Little drops of concern and kindness create a chemistry of happiness and satisfaction that had long been stripped away. My only fear: can it last? I hope. I pray. Here in the dark, I can see the man I was—far off in the distance. A happy and excited fellow, brimming with possibility and energizing everything around him. He stands on a hilltop, contemplating how he got lost, trying to navigate his way back by the light of his Northern Star—his Polaris. So I will try to maintain this fertile ground. I will keep the light on and hope he can trace his way back home again. I don’t know if you miss him, but I sure do.
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
Psalm for Wysteria
Jehovah protect her Guide her disquieted heart And give her your peace That excels all thought
Oh my God, these times are critical, Desperate—and we, as you know, Are doing our best.
But the pressure is beginning To fissure our bodies Our minds and our souls
Help her tonight to find The quiet glen of hope And see through time To your day of golden life
Jehovah, do not let her flounder Or fear—let not guilt's weight Crush or break her apart Draw close to a good soul
And salve the disquiet Soothe the painful wounds And prop up a tired mind For there is so much work to do
And she, a warrior among us Is the force of life we need A Deborah in the pause Before the war
Oh, Jehovah! Do not forget Your lowly one who tries So hard and never quits This lovely soldier of your large army
Before the Day
There is a stillness before the day begins— and in it, we almost remember who we really are.
The glow of morning is starting. Invisible shapes begin to take ghostly form; the corners of the room materialize. This morning’s darkness was one for music and reflection— a list of songs, some melancholy, some hopeful, some inspired— each a deep and wide well of thought and emotion. Perfect for the predawn hours. But thought now drifts to day, and I acknowledge that this space between life and death cannot remain. The doorway must shut, and I must transform once again into my human form, and sally forth among them, doing the things humans do each day. There are letters to write, groceries to buy, lessons to teach, and love to be made. I hope this spirit in me is up to the task, for the road is long, and I do not know the way.
https://www.instagram.com/reel/DMIov2Ux-5t/?igsh=NXU4ZmJjbW1vaWR4
She chameleon ———-—
Service today was delightful. We met and were the only two of us, which was just fine with me! Then we called on Joni, a longtime call of Angie’s. It was terrific!! He is a student of the Bible and we got to demonstrate the Bible study.
Since we stood in his porch for an hour reveling in conversations about God, we were exhausted and drenched in sweat. Now we are retired to Pioneer Restaurant and enjoying eggs and bacon and a temperature cold enough to hang meat!
A woman comes in with her dad. He is hunched nearly in double over his walker and wearing the requisite old man continue: Jean shorts, a tucked in pullover and Velcro shoes worth white calf socks.
They hunch over their phones for 10m and then engage each other in very lively conversation. She clearly has a good relationship with him. It’s a nice dynamic.
By the door the restaurant acquired the Toys r. Us Jeffry giraffe coin slot ride. A child is creating an unforgettable moment while his dad feeds quarters into the machine.
I always loved the coin slot rides when I was a kid. I would walk over to Kmart from my grandmothers and sit on the 4-horse merry go round. It didn’t go round due my dearth of funds. But I had a good imagination.
For years I would want to get on them. Long after I was too big to do so.
Angie regales me with a story of her first day at school and how she pushed Fernando Sellerio whose father owned no car. He believed in walking everywhere. She discovered that detail when her friends Delia and Linda Garcia would park in their front hard with their boyfriends and make out, one of whom was Angie’s kindergarten victim.
She recalls being very good at math in those early days. Likely a reason she excelled later in school and ended up in the medical field.
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If I could travel through time— A common fantasy. In Napoleon Dynamite, uncle Rico would make sure to win the big game. In Back to the Future, Marty saves his family. In Groundhog Day, Murray FINALLY manages to change into a good person. Interstellar lets Cooper save the human family and see his little girl again.
Like many, I've fantasized about my own travel through time. Where would I go? who would I meet? What would I change? They are usually wish fulfillment fantasies: buy early Apple or Microsoft, invent something novel first, enlighten the world to some medical breakthrough they won't see for a hundred years (ahem, wash your hands, people!). For this first time today, I considered murder.
'Kill Hitler' is another time travel trope. It never worked with John Connor (Terminators just weren't smart enough) and it never works with Hitler either. Still, I was thinking about some situations I've experienced and realized how much better the lives of the people affected would be if their assailants never got the chance to ruin lives.
In four cases I know of, lives were ended, ruined, or permanently disabled because of the actions of 4 men. And those are in addition to the dozens of lives they each made worse just by their manner and way they treat other humans. Especially women.
Why do cowards always pick on women?
And it dawned on me that while I'm thinking about getting rich or taking advantage of the past by wooing a high school girlfriend, why not cast abandon to the wind and damned the moral implications by simply executing four worthless souls before they ever get the chance to touch the people I care about?
It sounds absurd, but as I had this fantasy, I began to weep. At how the lives they ruined would have been saved if they'd been removed from the picture entirely.
What right do I have? None. This is selfishness wrapped in a justifying package of sacrifice. Forensics in the 1970's weren't what they are today, but still, murderers were caught all the time. I'd likely end up in past jail, sentenced for a quadruple homicide. The papers would have a hell of a time writing up the story.
'Prescient Child Goes on Killing Spree – No Explanation Given' (In my time travel, my body looks the same, but I have the memory and experience of old me). The persons wouldn't be connected by any tissue save for two who were in my circle of friends. But the other two would baffle authorities from two different states.
And I would be changed for ever. Even if I could get away with it and return to my own time, young me would be left behind with the physical evidence pointing to him. And even if I did get away scott-free—in the future, two dozen lives would be completely shifted, likely to the point that I didn't even recognize them any more, the stress and trauma having been assuaged.
Four families would be devastated by my actions. Would they deserve that? No, but neither do the families of these men's victims. At least one could argue some culpability having raised the kind of men they did. Another justification.
I don't know why my drive this afternoon is so vindictive. Heart and Soul is blasting full volume on the stereo and it moves my mind to the past where emotion runs deep. While I'm there, I start thinking about the scope of possibilities in my young life and the choices that I made which brought me here today. The baggage that came with those. Thinking about what would be changeable and the butterfly effects is what landed me on my fantasy murder-plot.
Would I change other things? Some, yes. But I don't think I'd try to rewire the universe. More along the lines of a few shifts to avoid being a fool, to improve the wellbeing of those around me.
In hindsight, it seems unlikely I have the capacity for such actions. But what a shame to live knowing you have the ability to prevent a tragedy, but not the capacity to!
There is only one solution in any case, and it involves a future where the wrongs are righted and the perpetrators made to pay. That's a better solution and doesn't involve any jail time.
I'd still be less of a jerk. And buy Apple in the early days.
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Heart and Soul—
From the first synth-pop beat, I'm a time traveler. Her soaring vocals send me pass 88mph and into another world... one of Trans-Ams (like seeing my first one), awkward moments and complete uncertainty.
I used to have a lover with a Midas touch (but miracles are not happening) I turned to gold but he turned to dust
I never realized this was a long longing for heart and soul. It always struck me as romantic and celebratory. Alas, Walking on the water, walking on the air That was the heart of the love we shared
Still, my mind and heart at living in 1987.
Wanna go to the spring dance with me next week?
Kiss Them For me
First listen- didn't much care for this track. It felt too brash and loud. But then the hook started. Some kind of—sitar maybe? IDK... it's a descending warping sound. Love that. So, second and third times it grew on me... I hear the Indian inspiration now. Was surprised to read it was about Jane Mansfield. :–(
On the road to New Orleans A spray of stars hit the screen
It's really good really loud!
Here's where the story Ends
I know it's about regret (It's that little souvenir of a terrible year), but the lilt and charm is so uplifting. Even the way she sings 'little souvenir' feels so hopeful.
The books like is intriguing. A symbol of affection and nothing more? Representing shallowness? In love with an idea more than substance?
Vienna
Oh, man! What a followup to Story Ends. I love the way he sings Viennnnnaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! It's elevating. But, 'it means nothing to me, it means nothing to me' He's trying to move on, to convince himself more than her, I think. Was it love? He felt like it was. Is Vienna a place or person? One night of passion that he can't move past?
Great song. That simple baseline is haunting.
Madrigal
Hello, welcome to 1633 and my harpsichord!
'“I will be there” said my friend of a distant life' — 'Cast of your garments of fear, replace them with love —
And if that firelight, I could match the inner flame — an internal passion or feeling (inner) trying to match the external show of passion and love? Sacred ships do sail the seventh age — A journey to... seventh age? Age of wisdom maybe? Experience? And have always been here – time travel or ever present in this journey?
He says in the end his friend is of fantasy... so maybe it's all a gentle exercise in imagination.
It feels chill and relaxing, like welcoming me to sit back, close my eyes and take an astral trip.
Court of the Crimson King
Opening life is A+ and pulls me right in. What is this story. Then the crescendo hits and I want to sway. I think this one could easily justify a few hours of exploration to understand what the imagery is here. It's rich and captivating. Wisde men, Crimson king, Fire Witch, yellow Jester, the gardener, the juggler. Wow, it's a cast of color and fascinating.
Midnight Sun
I think I need a better sound system for this one. I'm listening on headphones and it's too distant. It's like a flight somewhere. The Midnight Sun is an interesting line... guiding in a dark place, skiing across the sky?
Regardless... musically it doesn't seem forlorn... more softly motivating and evoking a relaxed emotional state.
Nobody's Home
Epic stat. Sounds like we're about to experience something inspirational. A journey somewhere—some universal truths but no one is listening. Puts me at ease.
Walking In the Wind
I am in a field after sunset. The trees sway with the evening breeze and the starts start to come out. The days problems haven't gone away, but I don't care because I'm gettin away from it all. Love the steady rhythm and how it's broken with a rousing chorus.
Cello Song
I expected yo yo ma but got guitar and plucking. He sounds forlorn... but based on your description of him, that sounds right. Cello is a lament. It sounds like he wants to unplug from the world and just make music. I can relate. There's a strong pull to just go away from everything, find new horizons and make art, write and quit worrying all the time.
Undertow
The name has me. The unresistable power of unseen forces. You can't fight it so you only have two choices, surrender and see where it takes you, or try to move perpendicular. Both executions come at a cost and they are the only choices you have.
'Lay down on the ground and let the tears run from you Crying to the grass and trees and heaven finally on your knees Let me live again, let life come find me wanting Spring must strike again against the shield of winter'
The pain of this is overwhelming. But later he says music and perfume linger, which feels hopeful—wine flowing from flask to gas and mouth soothing. So burying his pain in self-medication?
'Let me feel once more the arms of love surround me Telling me the danger's past, I need not fear the icy blast again'
I wonder if the thinking is that giving in and letting the pain and failure wash over you, pulled into the undertow, it eventually releases you and you come through and start to live a life never imagined.
Get A Room
Everyone's heard it or said it.
The singer explains that he's offering what the hearer wants and provisions a place (a room) to shelter. But then He says he's confused. The title indicates this will be a story of desire and lust.. it feels more like an exploration of... obsession? He seems dissatisfied with her. The guitar in this is mesmerizing. It feels evocative and tempting. The sudden out leaves me wanting to hear more of what's happening.
C'est Le Bon
Nice. Rhythm and cadence is very attractive. Nice and cheerful. But later in the song he wonders where life I taking him. He's disillusion at the man from teh ministry's advice? Lost the thrill, but life went on. Frustration. But it doesn't make me feel frustrated.
The chorus about lovers being needed in the garden... I am getting that he thinks love can correct the crazy and hurtful people there. Love triumphs over all.
He sounds hopeful, but I get the sense there's darkness under the surface and he's trying to contend with it.
Reasons for Waiting
Another super chill vibe. The little flute breaks are super cool.
Lovely lyrics... watching her sleep and her weeping stoping the sun.
'Came a thousand miles just to catch you while your smiling' ❤️
This is just a really nice song. The lyrics are so affectionate and the melody like an excited lover.
Happy.
Petite Etude
Classical? Oooohhhhh guitar is super nice. Great finish.
Nice. Isolation and connection, emotional paths, romantic and sensual to spiritual and beautiful.
I listened to this for a few hours last night (Sunday) after 'I'll be there'. Next time, I can't sleep in the middle of the night, I may go for a drive and crank up the stereo. That's probably not conducive to winding down though.
I'll Be There surprised me. I was expecting a maudlin story when Ferguson starts out like that end ends up in a psych ward. But the subversion of that with some lighthearted comedy mixed in with the weightier themes was great. Ackland was a surprise and terrific. I am used to seeing him as the bad guy or a heavy, so him a role where he's this thoughtful and caring grandfather rocker was SUPER fresh. Loved the mom's friend from the hair salon, he had some great lines. And that conversation between the two councilmen talking about the Who... that has you guys all over it. X-D
Two lovely friends dropped by yesterday. They were excited to bring us a small gift; a set of hand crocheted dolls they ordered from a sister in Thailand. They’ve been waiting for weeks and weeks for them to arrive. And they are the most darling little things ever.
The work is exquisite, tight and artful little yarn loops and perfectly formed little bulbous heads and bodies with these jewel eyes. You’d love them, we certainly do.
We went last night to Michael’s to find little doll stands for them… which they did not have. The young store associate, an adorable ginger hobbit of a woman, tried to help by pointing out that sometime similar might suffice.
She excitedly began to tell me how her 4 year old daughter needed something similar and as a mom she had to get creative. This must have triggered her maternal instinct because for most of five minutes she went on to tell me how much her daughter loved dinosaurs and Barbie snd insisted on a birthday cake with Barbie fighting a dinosaur. That the little girl used to go with mom to the laundry and loved helping out by putting coins in the machine.
Now they have a machine at home and the little girl insists on loading the clothes herself. Though mom doesn’t trust her to start the load just yet.
You def could have parlayed this into a witness. It felt like a slam dunk to mention Gods word. I don’t know why I didn’t. My mind was elsewhere I suppose. In the moment, most of her sweet chatter wasn’t landing. Only looking back do I realize this young woman was opening up about what was most important to her.
The job interview went well. It’s a good place to work and the job isn’t taxing. Ive done the work before, shooting and editing video, just never for local businesses. The manager is a nice guy and seems like a good blend of pragmatism and creativity. You know me, I do well with people and have that gift of presence.
Still praying about it. I need to knuckle down and take something steady for a while. But it feels like a chain. I love my lifestyle as it is now… but I need a change. The bigger the better— I believe the better choice would be having Ange take a temp gig, but I can tell by the look in her eyes and how the tone shifts to ‘maybe I’ll just get on at the check cashing place down the street’ that her hearts not in it.
Decisions.
I think I’ll go for a drive.
That worked out great (the drive). I cranked up the new playlist (I named Squeeze) and was delighted at the instrumentals. They really hi lighted the music with lyrics, which were profound. Stopped at the Falls and went for a walk. I was thinking about your visit in the spring of 19 (the La Quinta you stayed at is shuttered and run down now). That was a fun afternoon. I wish we could that again.
But the walk was fantastic. A few people on the trail, but mostly just an opportunity to commune with our creator a little and reflect on the beauty of his creation. I love how no matter where you are, if you look closely, you find stunning things to write about. A spider web, a flower, a mother, a bird. Jehovah is conducting a global orchestra 24 hours a day 7 days a week and the program is always changing!!!!!!
Josh Bradley called and I needed to tell him I couldn't do the wedding talk. So we met at iHop and I enjoyed eggs and bacon from thier $6 menu and broke the bad news. He took it well and all I had to say, 'I just don't have it in my right now'. Which is good. I didn't want to delve into the fact that his last wedding talk which I gave ended in a messy divorce of two friends. :–(
I know, I can't accept responsibly for a failed marriage because of a poor talk. Still, it left a bad tase in my mouth when they didn't apply the counsel in the talk and the inevitable happened. Somehow I managed to skate out of being his best man too. Which is good. TBH, I don't much like this woman he's marrying. She has a bunch of baggage and really bad health. She was only reactivated two years ago and attends meetings remotely, though she does comment frequently.
She's dealing with some mysterious heart problem where it beats at 120bpm all the time and she passes out from some unknown malady. Josh dismisses it as, 'well my heart rate is over a 100 a lot'. Meanwhile, I'm over here at an average of 58-60 only peaking at 120 if I've been strenuously and vigorously engaged in effort.
Plus the wedding is in two weeks. They are fast-tracking it because her daughter is going to college in Alabama in August and can't travel back until next summer. That's a lot to put together in 2 weeks.
Back at client work now. This job ships to day. Another job interview this afternoon. Oh, I need to rally on that. But part of me thinks Jehovah sent me this retouching job (4 weeks of work) to remind me that it will be okay and that I should keep my schedule open.
Thanks again for 'Listen to the Music' As always, I love your set lists. I guess one day I'll get a sour one. Until then, it's just always joy.
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I want to put coins in your ride till you get tired, play you music till you smile, stay up late and hold hands till we fall asleep
Keep you steady and still Help you find the happiness you need While the stars begin to shine and the moon unhides
Secrets in the dark and jokes in the night Calliope jaunty and loud Over the laughter of our children
Still dreaming and thinking of you The music spins and i sing along Lost in this tempest of hearts
I’d ride that ride till the stars came out, laughing with you through every spin and sway. You’d play the song that cracks my grin wide open, and I’d hum along just to hear you laugh. We’d stay up late telling secrets in the dark, your hand warm in mine like a promise. And when sleep finally takes us, I hope I’m still dreaming of you.
I’d let you feed that jukebox forever, each coin buying another smile from me. Your music would play, and I’d pretend not to know the words just to hear you sing them. I’d hold your hand ‘til morning dared to interrupt us— and still not let go. If sleep takes us, let it be tangled up in each other’s breath.
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We have a dear old couple they we have befriended after they moved here from Colorado. They are the parents of the wheelchair bound brother I took to see Jurassic Park. They called and stopped by to give us a gift: a hand crocheted Caleb and Sofia. There are so adorable. Always b
What is earth without woman? Dreams are sent for the understanding of love.
Path of Heart
Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.
A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade
Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.
Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white
A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)
A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row
Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades
Down
Down
Down
Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family
This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness
#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
Even the smallest bird sings into the silence, believing it matters.
You just shove it right in! Is soaks it right up!
Know what I’m sayin’, brah!?!
Even the smallest bird sings into the silence, believing it matters.
Lost in a desert of Want and desire Clawing for years Through the sands Of kindness Without a drip Of
You understand the power here is the desire. The drug of feeling wanted. Angie expects my presence and support and attention— but doesn’t see me as an object of desire. And I don’t think that’s a me thing. I believe it’s a limitation of her emotional construct. Something in her is switched off or broken from the trauma of sexual abuse and mistreatment at the hands of other men. So sexually, and physically, she’s always been more of a friend than a lover. Not to say she hasn’t been generous physically over the years. I just think it’s a more of a mismatch on supply and demand. she gives what she can, which I am hungry for. But I don’t think it lands how much I desire her.
Variations on a theme of Paganini, by Sergei Rachmaninov
Playlist
Listen to the Music Late Sunday night, with too many thoughts in my head and not enough stillness in my spirit, I pressed play tonights playlist — 'Listen to The Music' was the name the author bestowed. What began as casual listening soon transformed into something deeper, something more like a dialogue with memory, longing, and hope. The songs ranged from sensual pulses to soft reveries. Each track opened a little door inside me.
“Heart and Soul” hit first. That synth-pop beat launched me right back into 1987 — a time of Trans-Ams and awkward moments, when love still felt wrapped in neon and mystery. I used to think the song was triumphant. Only recently did I hear the yearning under the surface. Walking on the water / walking on the air... — a love that defied gravity, now gone. Still, part of me lives there.
From there, the songs unfolded like a private emotional landscape — each one carrying a different flavor of memory or meditation. “Vienna” posed questions I still don’t have answers to. Was it a place or a person? It means nothing to me,he sings — but of course, it means everything.
“Madrigal” invited me to close my eyes and float into the imagination, to drift into the sacred seventh age, wherever that is. And then came the full bloom of lyrics like these: “Let me feel once more the arms of love surround me / Telling me the danger's past, I need not fear the icy blast again.” That’s from “Undertow,” a track that nearly swallowed me whole. It speaks to the moment when you stop fighting grief, stop resisting failure or disappointment, and let the pain pull you under — hoping that on the other side of surrender, there’s some form of peace. Maybe even resurrection.
Between songs, life seeped in. A memory of two friends bringing us handmade dolls, tiny crocheted beings crafted with loving precision, each loop of yarn a little act of affection. Or a Michael’s run, where a young redheaded clerk lit up talking about her daughter’s Barbie-and-dinosaur birthday cake. In the moment I didn’t quite register how open she was being. Only later did I realize — she was offering me her heart’s most tender territory. I should have said something spiritual. I usually do. But maybe what she needed was just someone to listen and smile. There’s a lot going on right now. A job interview at the TV station. Familiar work, maybe even good work, but it feels like a chain. I love my freedom — these walks, these playlists, these unexpected conversations. But change is overdue. Something has to shift. I don’t want to trade joy for stability, but I might have to — at least for a while.
So I went for a drive.
The playlist surged in my speakers, every instrumental interlude lighting up the road like lanterns guiding me home. I ended up at the Falls, remembering your visit in the spring of '19. The hotel’s boarded up now. Funny how even things we remember fondly can vanish or decay. But the walk was spectacular. Light through trees. Spiderwebs like chandeliers. The quiet percussion of feet on gravel. I felt Jehovah’s presence more clearly than I had in days. He conducts a global orchestra 24/7, and the program never repeats. There’s something holy about that. Josh called. I met him at IHOP to tell him I can’t do the wedding talk. He understood. It wasn’t the time to mention my unease — the last talk I gave for a wedding ended in a divorce. Some things you don’t say, even when they weigh on your mind. And this woman he’s marrying... well, I won’t say too much. But the signs are troubling. Later that day, I landed a new client project. Four weeks of retouching. Not glamorous, but it came just in time. Maybe it’s divine timing. A reminder to hold off, stay loose, keep the door cracked for whatever’s next. Still, I feel it. The pull of something bigger. Another city. Another life. I think about it when I drive. When I walk. When I listen to playlists that feel like soundtracks for movies I haven’t made yet.
Postscript Thanks for “Listen to the Music.” You have a gift for choosing songs that don’t just entertain — they open spaces. Sacred ones. Emotional ones. One day you might send me a clunker, but until then, all I get is joy. Let me know when you’re free. I’ll save you a seat. Maybe we can go to the spring dance together — for old times' sake.
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I walk at midnight—a contemplative wanderer in a neighborhood long since surrendered to sleep or the anesthetic glow of blue-lit screens. It’s a Wednesday night that has quietly become Thursday morning. The air is thick with summer heat, but a stiff breeze stirs the trees and brushes the sweat from my skin like an invisible hand.
I peel my shirt away, let the breeze massage my chest and back, and laugh to myself—nearly tempted to stroll in the emperor’s new clothes. But I remember the unblinking eyes of video doorbells with night vision. Exhibitionism, it turns out, is only noble in the absence of surveillance.
Still, I am the emperor of this night. The treetops sway above me, alive and whispering like a hidden audience cheering my procession. The stars flicker wildly tonight—the disturbed atmosphere making their signals feel urgent. And then I spot it: the Big Dipper. Its seven ancient points shine down on me, each photon between 80 and 100 years old.
A small knot catches in my chest. The light I see now was born when Fitzgerald first published Gatsby. And the light born in this instant, out there in that invisible forge of fusion, won’t reach this world until I am 153—if I am here to see it at all. That thought makes me lie down.
The concrete is coarse against my back, sun-warmed and radiating heat long after the source is gone. The bones of this street have absorbed another brutal day. No wonder our cities are heat sinks—our past century has paved the earth in stone and steel, and we wonder why the air won’t cool. Breathing slows. Thought slows. And I begin to lift—first inward, then upward. My body becomes a ghost, a specter of will and thought alone. I float above the trees, tingling and glowing, supercharged by some cosmic hum. Untethered by mass or physics, I shoot into the night sky and circle a 500-foot radio tower, its pulsing red lights painting me like a fire-wreathed phantom.
Above a thousand feet, I spot the red and green beacons of NATO training jets. I dart beside them like a dolphin pacing a ship, laughing in the silent void. But I grow bored quickly—it turns out, spectral speed can be disorienting. So I test the limits. At the speed of light, I reach the western edge of the continent in an instant. But it's too fast. There's no thrill in pure velocity. On my return, I slow to a quarter of the speed of sound—twenty seconds of joy. Then eastward, slower still. It takes minutes to reach a familiar town in North Carolina. Time enough to savor flight. I visit a quiet home—lights low, its inhabitants asleep, unaware of the visitor hovering outside. I drift on to the sea, where phosphorescent algae and starlight shimmer over sand. I sit in that soft-glowing dark, knees tucked to chest, breathing deep the salted air. The roar of the ocean never stops, only changes intensity. It feels like prayer.
Time has no grip on me now. I watch little transparent crabs scurry sideways, predators of the night, unaware that the violet-blue shimmer watching them is a human body stretched out hundreds of miles away. I smile. We are not so different—we chase safety and longing and small satisfactions, blind to how close we walk beside wonders. I stop time. I build a home. Ten years I spend on this beach, raising a great house on piers. Wide open rooms, handmade furniture, crystal-clear windows to the sea. When it is finished, I discover I can summon others—my circle of loved ones—into this ether realm. We gather for a dinner party on the shore. For days we laugh, feast, swim, share stories under the moon. There is joy. There is sorrow. There is no rush. But even this must end. One by one, my guests return to their lives, each promising, “We’ll do this again soon.” And one remains longest. Her presence is my quiet joy. We speak in whispers, in glances. We delay our goodbye like children postponing bedtime. And as I embrace her—a kiss, a scent of spice and moonlight—my dream collapses like a wave drawn back into the ocean.
I wake. The ground is still warm. The trees still cheer. But now, I hear their voices in the rustling leaves. And they sing: I hear you in the trees Swaying as you sing to me Feeling as your heart Pulses through my weary body I smile as I rise, brushing off the bits of concrete embedded in my back. It’s late—late enough that if I linger, I might find myself breakfasting with raccoons and opossums. Time for a real night’s sleep. Spectral-me has already laid his head.
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Expanded and Refined
Midnight — out for a contemplative walk. The streets are dark, the working class neighborhood is fast sleep or anesthetizing with media and any known variety of substances this Wednesday night-cum-morning.
My only companions besides the dark, the stiff hot breeze making the heavy summer heat bearable (even pleasant), I peel my shirt away in the night and let the air massage my top and back, tickling the the little hairs that are normally hidden away in the daylight hours. I have a sudden urge to dress in the emperors new clothes, but good sense reminds me it isn’t nearly dark enough for that. And I have a laugh at the video doorbells with night vision that would record my exhibitionism even in pitch black.
An emperor of this night anyway, the shadowy tree tops seem alive in chorus as I march down the middle of the street, they a lauding audience of thousands cheering my procession. And, the night sky with its host of twinkling gemstones. The disturbed atmosphere makes the flickering starlight especially vigorous tonight.
The Big Dipper suddenly becomes apparent to me, its 7 points of light, each photon collected in this instant between 80 and a 100 years old. This catches in my chest for a moment when i realize the moment of fusion that generated the heat and light occurred before almost everyone alive was born. This tiny particle of light was generated as the Fitzgerald published Gatsby! And this moment of light and heat happening out there right now and invisible to me, won’t come to me until I am 153!
I hope I am here to capture that light just as I am tonight. The things I will see in that century will be new and unique i human history. Great wars and devastations, tremendous and incredible renewal and recovery, and the start of a government finally qualified to rule everywhere not just on early, but it the universe.
Eager to continue my fantasies, I find a dark spot and lay on the hard, hot concrete. The texture is course on my tender back and the heat of the day has been stored deep in the material bones of the substance. It has been hours since it felt the radiation, and it will be hours still before it cools. No wonder it is so hot here, our world the last 159 years has been constructed into a giant heat sink!
The heat makes me drowsy and relaxed. My breathing slows and deepens as my consciousness drifts through the veil of wakefulness and stalls on the threshold before sleep.
I feel my body grow light and float as a specter up through the treetops and it supercharges me as I start to tingle and glow. As a non-corporeal thought, I am not bound by physics and so I shoot across the night sky and circle the 500’ radio tower, the pulsing red warning lights making me look like a fire-wreathed phantom.
At a thousand feet, I spot the distinctive red and green locator lights of the NATO training jets and I streak across the silent sky to give chase like a dolphin pacing a fast boat.
I quickly grow board with the game and stop to get my bearings. I realize how easy it is to get disoriented when moving in 3-D spectral space.
How fast can I go? On the realm of imagination I am bound by no physics… can I travel west at the speed of light?
In what feels like instantaneous travel, I find myself at the limits of the western seaboard. The speed of light is too fast for someone who enjoys the thrill of flight. On my return, I slow to a quart of the speed of sound. This journey of about 20 seconds allows me to to feel the thrill of speed. I decide to travel east, seeking the Eiffel tower. and going slower still, the trip of 1700 miles takes only few minutes and allows me the pleasure of flight.
I find a familiar home. But it is very late and the lights are all low, the occupants resting for a busy day tomorrow. So slip further east to the sea and settle in the sand on a beach lit only by starlight and phosphorescent algae.
I sit for a long time here, my knees curled into my chest, head resting on my arms. I breath long and deep the salty sea air that relaxes me and washes the worry into memory. And I marvel for a long time at how the power and roar of the ocean changes in intensity but never stops.
This, like so many gifts, from our Creator. Man cannot conceive the depth of creativity the Master Worker put into the world of ours. Little transparent crabs run sideways looking for prey and a place to hide before daybreak makes them easy targets for the gulls.
Other small things I can’t identify move as little shadows in the night, no doubt on similar missions. I am a lonely traveler here this morning and as we cannot conceive of the depth of God’s work, these tiny night monsters have no concept that this purple/blue ghost is a long pale human stretched on the ground half a continent away. And this makes me smile to think about how clueless we really are as we spend our days like the little creatures chasing wants and shelter.
Since I am bound by neither physics or reality, I stop time and build a hut here on this lonely stretch of beach and live here 10 years while I build a fine home on piers either a large open space and a huge table overlooking the water. And when everything is perfect, the stone counters polished, the windows made to shine like crystal, fine handmade furniture and beautiful art, I discover my astral self can pull others into the ether realm and so set forth and collect my cadre of loved ones to a sea-side dinner party.
For days we dine and laugh and play games. We frolic in the sea and laze about in our ghostly swimwear. At night we burn bonfires and sing songs and share stories of our lives and hopes. Usually there is joy and happiness, but some of our tales are of woe and loss.
Ultimately, we realize nothing can last forever and one by one, our group dwindles and shrinks as my circle returns to their lives. Each promising that soon we will continue the moment.
We die hards who are so desperate for each others company, we’ll find any excuse to delay goodbye for another moment.
And there is one whose presence i enjoy more and whom I try to corner for the small moments where we can exchange out of earshot. And we delay the longest not knowing when or if this will come again. And all the moments of our life where we are together flood my memory and it feels like I’ve have know her all my life. But it is only about half of it. I smile to think I’ve kept a friend for so long.
But the door to this threshold world can only be held open for so long. The years I have lived here, require time in the realm of flesh.
So I embrace my old friend, and squeeze as tightly as I dare to feel her presence and I inhale her aroma of spice and flowers and moonlight. With a final kiss, she is gone as is my spectral world, collapsing like a dream when sun begins to pull one from the depth of rem.
The ground here is still warm and course and the trees still cheer. Only now I can hear the song and voices in their tendrils.
I hear you in the trees Swaying as you sing to me Feeling as your heart Pulses through my weary body
This makes me smile as I am pooled here in the night. But sleep is calling and if I tarry longer, will find myself waking with the raccoons and opossums.
Picking my large frame from the ground, I dust off the bits that have embedded in my skin and retire to a real nights sleep. Spectral-me has already laid his head.
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Variations on a theme of Paganini, by Sergei Rachmaninov.
🌿 Poetic Fiction & Lyrical Prose 1. To the Lighthouse – Virginia Woolf A masterclass in stream-of-consciousness, time as emotion, and the ache between people who love each other but cannot say it. 2. The Lover – Marguerite Duras Sparse but emotionally charged prose. A story of longing, taboo, and the memories that won’t let go. 3. The Book of Disquiet – Fernando Pessoa Fragmentary, melancholic, and deeply philosophical. Reads like an inner diary from a soul in exile — you'd likely feel mirrored. 4. The Hour of the Star – Clarice Lispector Short, strange, and sublime. The narrator’s metaphysical introspection turns a simple story into something transcendent.
🕊️ Spiritual & Philosophical Poets 5. Letters to a Young Poet – Rainer Maria Rilke A must-read if you haven’t already. It will speak directly to your internal struggle between art, solitude, yearning, and meaning. 6. The Prophet – Kahlil Gibran Biblical cadences with romantic mysticism. It’s ideal for you — especially as you're exploring garden metaphors and emotional confession. 7. Time and the Other – Emmanuel Levinas (philosophy, poetic edge) If you want to reflect on “the other” as presence, memory, or mystery — this brief text has poetic, almost sacred weight.
🌌 Dreamlike & Mythical Storytellers 8. Invisible Cities – Italo Calvino Short prose-poems about imagined cities. But they’re really meditations on memory, love, decay, desire, and the soul’s architecture. 9. The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry You likely know this one, but rereading it as an adult — especially after heartbreak or creative loss — is surprisingly piercing.
🎨 Modern Confessionals & Love in Letters 10. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City – Nick Flynn Memoir written like prose poetry. It explores estranged family, homelessness, addiction, and the sacred in the broken. 11. Bluets – Maggie Nelson A lyrical obsession with the color blue becomes a meditation on longing, loss, and the body. Minimalist, but maximal in feeling. 12. Grief Is the Thing with Feathers – Max Porter Part fable, part grief memoir. A poetic story about a father and his sons haunted (literally) by a crow after their mother dies. Strange and sublime.
📖 Optional Bonus: Religious/Scriptural Echo * Ecclesiastes (especially in the King James Version or Robert Alter’s translation) — meditative, existential, lyrical. * The Psalms – particularly those of lament or longing. * Song of Songs – your themes of symbolic intimacy and exile echo this poem powerfully.
4 am!
Crap! I missed her. when did I fall asleep? I must have passed out.
5am Lying here on the floor of my studio staring into the dim of night. Little LEDs from various hard drives and other electronic doo-dahs give the room the faintest of glows. The furniture looks ghostly. Wide-open irises strain to let in every photon they can splash onto the tiny rods in order to define the space.
it strikes me how oddly safe I feel on the floor. Several months ago, when the panic attacks started, curling up on the floor and wedging myself under the edge of the bed or my desk was the only place I could manage to fine respite. Like a frightened animal it seems.
This morning, I don’t seek escape, this is just my current resting place. Quiet and soft. To her, the space and peace she needs to rest without interruption. I used to think it odd that my grandparents kept separate sleeping quarters… now it feels like a luxury. Somehow though—shouldn’t any separation from the one who means the most to us drive us mad?
Relationships are complex animals. The older I get, the less i understand them. And the less I understand myself.
I feel the tiredness in my body. Not heavy or lethargic, but sort of a very subtle ache. But my mind is awake and alive with electric pulses jetting from the little cracks in my grey matter. Physical versus mental battles, I suppose.
It’s busy with fantasy, regret, desire, exploration… all the things a mind is capable of when allowed to just exist without stimulation. It makes me think of how an isolation tank must affect psychology. The fewer external inputs, the less reality our mind has to process. In theory, the more clearly we can think.
My reality this morning, like yesterday’s astral journey, is preoccupied with being somewhere else. Why am I like this!? Why can’t I just be like Bilbo in his home at Bag End? Fat and happy with good food and friends. Like minds, patient and adventurous.
Well, now that I write it, there is a component I desperately long for: companions. Those in my circle are trying and I love that. But it is as if my mind thinks in elvish while we all communicate with stick drawings.
This is not a productive train of thought. Time to get in motion.
Out for a drive. Spinning the wild playlist I named ‘New Bipolar Disorder’.
Sunrise is inspired as Gaga anthems 'Bad Romance'. Hell yes! She wants it all. The good the bad, and be salve and the burn. The song is riotous and sounds best blasting its intensity. It oozes emotion. God, it promotes want—that ache that's always there and just gets ignored... Gaga is pulling at it like a Mack truck.
Walking through the century old downtown as the sky explodes: first magenta then cerulean before a final orange-white consumes all the saturation just before that day-star dominates the light and temperature of the waking hours. It is not yet 7am.
Gaga has changed to MandyMoore. This one is a shocker. I don't thin I konw a single Mandy Moore track. But...what is she saying here? She wants... like Gaga. It's an addiction like a refined sugar. Yeah, that I can understand .I feel like a high schooler on a fall morning. I have missed the bus and am walking fast to get to my class before first bell.
Give it to me Ooh, oh Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Ooh, oh
Teenage me would be frustrated because he’ll miss seeing his crush at her locker. But at least I won’t be terribly late if he just grinds as fast a walk as he can. My legs will feel it and jitter and shake for an hour.
No Air spins next. This track needs a cruise in the dark with streets pulsing as they pass. Bonus if there is a waterfront toone side or the other. Miami maybe. Or New York. It gives me chills when Soarks and Brown harmonize. This is a song to make love to.
Got me out here in the water so deep.
Johnny Rivers comes in after three vigorous tracks with respite and reflection. If tracks 1-3 were vigorous and pumping, Rivers invites me to slow down and sway in the moment. Let the chemicals ebb and ease while keeping my head in that arena of physicality Gaga, Moore and Sparks started. Reeeelaaaaxxxxxx.
Marty McFly whisks me to 1965 for the first radio play of Valie’s ‘The Sun Ain’t Giona Shine’. A lament about the trauma of loss. This one's sad. Post relationship and he knows that stuff's going to be awful for a while (forever?)
Hearts, broken and whole have melted for half a century at this crooners words. Hold on to her boys.
I notice the sun makes its earnest debut this morning when the heat suddenly warms the cool air settled between the city buildings overnight. What was still, damp and heavy is suddenly rushing invisible rivers drying the sweat of my morning’s ambulatory efforts. I want to raise my arms and fall into the force and let it carry me away and drop me the sea. I would have to wait for nightfall for the return journey.
My musical and physical reverie is interrupted when I turn a corner, stepping out of the jet stream and a construction crew is sawing through the sidewalk. The saw makes an angry buzz like a bull-sized honey bee trying to extract some kind of stone-nectar.
Harmonizing with the horrendous sound a freight train two blocks over un-sheathes its warning horn at full volume and the conductor leans and leans on it as it reverberates through the concrete canyons, like an industrial bell tower. God is not the one being worshipped, it is goods and dollars.
As this cacophonous amalgam played out, I try to enjoy the tambourine rhythms of ‘I’ll be there’ and feel reminded that there is a soul I can always count on when the chips are down.
‘I'll reach out my hand to you I'll have faith in all you do.’
I think of the Welsh film of the same title that celebrated unquestioned love in spite of non-ideal circumstances.
Glen Cambell is serenading the challenges of being at a distance in 'Wichita Lineman' and how we cling to even the smallest signal. Even if it’s watching a light on a screen sometimes be green, sometimes absent. Or experiencing the palpitations of a dancing ellipsis. Am I the lineman? Is she? Def some understanding in looking for any little signal or indication of life. Proof of life doesn't take much.
Hahahaha! Great one! Harry Bellefonte brings some levity to the party while reminding us men aren’t nearly as bright as we think we are. Who runs the world? The same one who says, ‘I put my pants on one one leg at a time. I know this because my wife tells me so.’
In a bittersweet moment, the singer realizes his new child is really another man’s. He’s been fooled by the fairer sex. Those damned blue eyes... you can explain away a lot, but I don't think there's a genetic anomaly to get blue from other eye colors. But what do I know. That I'm proud of my blue eyes. Good grief. I miss contacts. They always showed them off.
Williams Lovesick Blues is just too much. Uhg! The heartbreak and longing. Movies aren’t made about the king tale of broken love because it’s too traumatic. No wonder so many widows just live their days alone. Who can replace that one person who was a perfect fit and they were lucky enough to find one another?
Ella catches me off balance with Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered. I expect a typical classic ballad but then she drops lines like:
‘After one whole quart of brandy Like a daisy, I'm awake’
‘I'm wild again, beguiled again A simpering, whimpering child again’
‘I’ve sinned a lot, I mean, a lot But I'm like sweet seventeen a lot’
‘Horizontally speaking He's at his very best’
‘Vexed again, perplexed again Thank God, I can be oversexed again’
‘Romance, finis; your chance, finis Those ants that invaded my pants, finis Bewitched, bothered and bewildered – no more’
Oh, my! Am I sweating!?
It’s a wild and raucous, not to mention stunningly honest, reflection on the cost and brutality that comes sometimes from love. Not regret exactly, but certainly understanding.
I’ve finished my walk and decided a short drive is in order today when Patsy Kline’s ‘Crazy’ starts pining away at me. This is an absolute classic. The lyrics are haunting as she tells about how in spite of all of her hope and energy, she knew there was the reality of losing the dream. 😔
Not ready for home, I drive out to Dean. The rising sun and empty highway make for good companions. I miss my copilot, but I wish I could an occasional road trip alone. There's something to the solitude and thought. We are stronge creatures, we humans.
As I turn for home, it is approaching 8am and the lawn needs attention. So spend the rest of the drive and the following half hour with a pallet-cleanser of Radioheads ‘the Bends’ while I fight the jungle in the growing heat.
It has been QUITE a morning. Heartrate 105! Good for me!!
There are times when they feel like the only place on earth where we are truly understood and accepted. Then there are times when it feels like a prison. My guess is this is a human thing. Just like being at home drives us crazy and we need to get out and go for a walk or a drive. Other times, we draw the curtains and turn off our phone and just hibernate and count the blessings of the safety they provide. Sanctuary.
I was cornered by an old acquaintance last night whose marriage is on the rocks. I don’t mean drifted apart and looking for ways to stay involved, I mean, after 6 months they both realized they hadn’t really known the other person and now can’t stand each other. It’s a heartbreaking situation. Well, it was. I’ve grown so weary of hearing the same story: she insists he’s all the problem. He insisted she is. They think, of ONLY the other one would change to meet them, they’d be fine.
So, I was kind but honest: ‘Look Paul, stop trying to get her to change, to come to your standard. You need to abandon your standard. The only way you will ever have peace is to accept her and let her be. The only thing you can control is your own attitude. Put your wants and expectations aside and bend to her.’ I know. She has to do her part too. But Paul isn’t going to be able to make her and he doesn’t have the patience to wait. So he only has once choice. Be a different person.
At least then he can quit wearing me out complaining all the time.
United boys of summer playing don henley
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Sydney crushes on a 28 yo with a gorgeous girlfriend. At convention, he saw her in the office and said. “You know Sydney, there’s coffee right there.” “Oh, I don’t drink coffee.” Sydney states. “No, no,” crush says, “you can get ME some coffee.”
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And as much as she and you wish John were there for you more completely, I know she grows weary of my constant presents 24 hours a day 7 days a week. That she stays up late and sleeps late might even be because that's her way of carving out personal time.
Weakness? Yes, what else could it be? But
3am Broken minded but not a broken spirit.
The leather couch is cool against my cheek when I turn my head and i realize I have fallen asleep watching music videos. My wife has long since retired and is traipsing in the dream realm.
I remember a gentle kiss in my twilight. Was that a dream? Or were the gently parted, cool lips a goodnight gesture before she shut down our evening, cast the cat into the night air and went down for a long nights sleep? I decide they were a memory and a gesture of love after last nights emotional trauma. We had a long tense early morning that ended with us both calm and resolved to keep moving forward. But I appreciate that she seems to be trying to celebrate our life and not regretting it.
I love this couch, but it isn't conducive to sleeping. It's a modern affair; long, low, white leather with stilted legs. Italian made and a quality piece of furniture. But it's manufactured with there distinct seating cushions that are designed in it's bones. So when a 200 pound gorilla curls up for an evening of television, after 5 hours, he notices two prominent bars very subtly pressing against his rib cage and thigh.
It is a good time to follow through on my bedtime routine that I skipped earlier when I fell away to dream. Toothbrush and drugs before rolling out my pallet in the studio. I'll have to reclaim my pillows from the dryer. I had to wash them both today after a disaster last night with a large bottle of ink.
After two beers charged with some lemon vodka, I thought it wise to unplug something on my bookshelf in the studio when I unknowingly knocked a large glass bottle of ink onto my tile floor next to where I lay my head these days. In my very relaxed state, I did not notice the disaster until several hours later when I woke up in a pool of something cold, viscous and everywhere. My pillows, blankets, face, back, shoulders, arms and chest are covered in the rich liquid that I love drawing with so much.
If you've never spilled artists ink, you haven't lived.
Remember the Cat-in-the-Hat by Theodore Giessel Suess? The one where the kids get a spot of something in mom's clean house and call the cat to help clean it up but instead everything the cat does, spreads the spot until it covers their whole world? In my opinion, spilled ink is what inspired Dr Suess. It is the substance that never stops spreading. It took an hour to clean what I could this morning and most of the day to get it off of my skin and out of my hair. My pillows will bear the scars of battle until they are retired.
Incidentally, isn't interesting that those two small children were left alone at home? I recall being left to our own devices from about 10 or 11 on. As an adult myself now, that seems far too young and I recall the traumatically bent Humbolt Humperdink's proclivities for unsullied and innocent children. I called on a woman early this morning in my ministry whose 9 and 10 year old daughters opened the door without pause or hesitation to explain mom was out working and that they were home by themselves. I shiver to think of the danger they are in. The home is on a very busy thoroughfare and just a block or two down from what appears to be a drug den of some kind.
Please close and lock that door girls. And don't let in any cats, with or without hats.
I fumble for my phone and check for any new messages. Nothing. I am equal parts satisfied and disappointed. I'm glad my friend is tucked way safely and soundly in the mountains of the east waiting for nine hours of sleep and a day with friends. The family is spending a week volunteer-teaching and preaching in the mountains somewhere off of highway 8 in southern Virginia. Lots of hillsides and hollows and curious souls. Only seventeen short hours on the road from Dust Meridian and my friends are readying themselves for a busy week of activity.
I reflect on my own day's activity in the preaching work. We made subtle efforts with a handful of people while trying to avoid heat stroke. This time of year is always a challenge for us. But it's a pleasure to be out doing something worthwhile together. And we were joined by a friend today who needs people. She is a widow of two decades whose adult daughter recently moved to the northeast and it's been a difficult adjustment to live entirely on her own. I can tell because when we get together, she chatters continuously. Not in a bad way, just that I can tell she doesn't have nayone to tell her stories too. This is a common theme with the single women in my life, usually older, and whose husbands have died: they love to talk. Phone calls to check on their well being usually result in about an hour of catching up.
This morning one of the many stories I hear is about her daughter who, at 25, has a crush on a man a couple of years older than her. The feelings were washed away when the man audaciously told her he thought getting coffee was the woman’s job. It sounded just short of a swat on the bottom and calling her ‘toots’.
So much for that budding romance.
The morning talking to neighbors about the Bible was followed with a coupe of hours of lawn and building maintenance where we worship before freshening up and having a light lunch.
A nap and a move brought us to the evening more quickly than I liked and a desperate call from a friend pulled me away for some counseling.
The couple was struggling with feelings of guilt and remorse over some past decisions they made and needed an hour or so of being reminded they are seen not for their mistakes, but for their successes. We all carry so much guilt, and we don’t have to. Of course telling someone to let it go is easier said than done.
I’ve lived a long life of being convinced of right and wrong. And certainly those truths exist. Somehow, more and more I am understanding that survival means doing the thing that is good for you over what someone else says is right or wrong.
Be good, do good works. Don’t sweat it if you don’t get it all right all of the time.
Coming home, my wife has started the evening with music videos on YouTube. The first 45m is a series of soundtracks from old films: the way we were, barefoot in the park, heartburn, and a dozen others. They are good songs and some are new to me. I finally doze off when we switch to classic film clips. The last I recall is the scene from Casablanca when Rick comes in to find Sam playing The Way We Were and ushers him out when he see’s his old lover.
Which brings us here, dear reader. To my reverie on an early Sunday morning in July, the year of our lord, 2025. 4:38 am CST.
I am feeling indifferent tonight. I wonder if it is just being tired, or yesterday’s argument. One way to find out is to sleep for another few hours and see if the fire in me is back or if will take a few days to relight my zeal.
Moondance— So mellow right now. I am a puddle of life and feelings. It Stoned My soul, stoned like a jelly roll. Moondance is an absolute beauty. I propose Moondance on August 9.
I feel like my life is so transitory See what I’m saying I’m like I have all those things so Why is this the hill you e decided to die on?
See a chance: Head bopping and makes me excited for possibility
Moondance
Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance With the stars up above in your eyes A fantabulous night to make romance 'Neath the cover of October skies And all the leaves on the trees are falling To the sound of the breezes that blow You know I'm tryin' to please to the calling Of your heartstrings that play soft and low You know the night's magic seems to whisper and hush You know the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love? Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love? Well, I wanna make love to you tonight I can't wait 'til the mornin' has come You know, I know now the time is just right And straight into my arms you will run And when you come, my heart will be waiting To make sure that you're never alone There and then all my dreams will come true, dear There and then I will make you my own And every time I touch you, you just tremble inside And I know how much you want me, that you can't hide Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love? Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love? Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance With the stars up above in your eyes A fantabulous night to make romance 'Neath the cover of October skies And all the leaves on the trees are falling To the sound of the breezes that blow You know I'm trying to please to the calling Of your heartstrings that play soft and low You know the night's magic seems to whisper and hush You know the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love? Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love? One more moondance with you In the moonlight On a magic night La, la, la, la, la, in the moonlight On a magic night Can't I just have one more, more dance with you, my love?
Listened to Moondance and Arc for hours, way into the ether.
It was some lost astral projection hungry for cake after marinating in Van Morrison and Winwood for 6 hours, thinking “what a wonderful night for a Moondance’ and wanting to talk about how get the perfect arc.
Je restais éveillé, dérivant au plus profond de l'éther, enveloppé par Moondance et Arc, ton pouls résonnant encore entre les notes.
Quelque part, tu chassais un autre chercheur aux yeux étoilés – quelqu'un qui prenait tes hanches pour une terre sacrée, ton soupir pour une invitation, ton silence pour un dessert.
Mais je sais mieux que quiconque que le festin ne commence que lorsque la musique s'affaiblit, et que tu repousses ton désir dans l'obscurité.
I lay awake, drifting deep in the ether, enveloped by Moondance and Arc, A pulse still resonating between the notes.
Holy men and fleshly men At war in a world awash The forces of want And of right
It is a wild moonless morning That finds me lost in a universe, Mind and body shot full of desire, And thrust deep into shadow A quarter million miles away.
I still feel the tidal pull Like it was a warm shadow Only inches away softly buzzing Just before dawn.
A comet splashes into orbit this morning—radiant, flushed with solar heat, ready for a Moondance.
A comet splashes into orbit this morning radiant And full of glowing splendor, Ready for a Moondance.
But his partner— Phased in crescent silk— Is a quarter million miles away, And shrouded from his eyes On the other side of the world.
So he taps and sways to the timing Of stars and the tidal pull, Hoping she too feels The cool rhythm of the universe.
A comet splashes into orbit this morning—éclatant, flushed with solar heat, ready for une danse de lune.
But his partner— enveloppée de soie en croissant— is à un quart de million de kilomètres, cachée à ses yeux, on the other side of the world.
So he pulses and sways to the rhythm of stars and tidal pull, espérant qu’elle aussi ressent le rythme froid de l’univers.
Emotion is healing Sensuality is sacred Beauty and connection matter more than logic or reputation Love isn’t a thing to chase, but a state to enter and tend
But I know better than anyone that the feast only begins when the music fades, and you push your mind Into the possibilities.
Moondancer—Van Morrison
Stoned Me- two boys out for a days adventure who experience something unexpected and profound. The man with the sunshine in his eye. Moonshine? Tea? A spiritual truth? Interesting praising.
The water running all over me is evocative and moving. Like a baptism of some kind. Stoned- as blown away, not so much got high. But some profound experiences release floods of chemistry in us that def make me feel high.
The song stirs me.
Moondance: This really surprised me. Just the easy jazzy approach. Lyrically it’s beautiful and full of sensuality and want. This is a powerful piece. Every line turns if the longing and ache.
Crazy love:
I can hear her heartbeat from a 1000 miles And the heavens open every time she smiles
I need her in the daytime I need her in the night
Almost a chant. A meditation on emotion and the power of loving someone completely. It’s so gorgeous that when he goes to her when the sun goes down, she takes away his trouble and his grief. No wonder he needs her needs her needs her. She is like a neutralizing agent cancelling out those woes and worries. This is significant in life so we don’t continuously build up a collection that destroys us mentally and emotionally. It’s like she was designed as his compliment. Beautiful.
Caravan Like the rest of the album, this makes me feel like a MUCH cooler guy than I am. Swagger. I have a hard time holding on the to thread narratively, but longing to hold her tight so he can feel her resonates. He calls her a lady of the night, a reference to a prostitute? Or just when he’s together with her? The turning up the radio just feels like ‘a moment’. Youth captured in a bottle to be revisited any time i can press play.
Into the mystic I love seagoing metaphors. Something about the freedom the ocean represents. But he wants the foghorn. I wonder if he’s confessing he will be leaving but until then wants to rock her Gypsy soul. Enjoying their time together but acknowledging it won’t be forever.
Come Running 🏃 Bright and dancing. Anthem of safety and refreshment. If she comes to him, it will be okay. W
wanna keep you satisfied in the morning sun By my side, come on, come on run And you kick the sand up with your heels You think to yourself how good it feels
He’s there from first light. Not a use them and leave them, but satisfied in the morning sun and kicking sand while reflecting on the satisfaction that comes from running to him.
He wants to be her willow. ❤️❤️💕
Dreams of You Musically, very chill like the whole album. Lyrically, it feels like a reflection of loss and regret:
You lost and you lied You hurt me deep inside
The jaunty bear betrays a darkness Van Morrison seems to be confronting. I guess into each life a little rain must fall.
A Brand New Day Van finds SSRIs. Sounds like he is recalling how hard things have been just as matters begin to improve. Dr
Everyone Feels happy and upbeat. Norman about narrative. The flute and rhythmic ‘everyone’ is nice and jaunty. Seems like good chill-out music.
Winwood
Chance: Transform; do not let perceived momentum keep you from happiness. A clear blue morning is the perfect setting to realize that the clouds that have gathered will not always be, though at times they may return.
Arc Diving in to the fathoms of passion and love. A sacred intimacy that changes him forever. Arc is a good metaphor for grace and tension that comes with love, both physical and emotional. She, like any good woman, makes him better, more, stronger.
Second hand Woman Never liked this one much. Musically, it’s funky and engaging but not sure how she’s a second hand woman… if he’s being judgy or she’s a real jerk.
You can’t buy a dream that’s not for sale
Slowdown Sundown
Lovely ballad about taking our time. Fitting considering how fast life is. I look up and 30 years has evaporated. A lot of good memories, but now there seems hardly time to do another thing. I like how he lists simple beauties: glass of memory, faded love songs, sunrise, a woman’s eyes. The tempo is perfect for the theme. It’s going to end, enjoy it while you can.
Spanish Dancer: The lure of the music pulls me in. He leaps right in with heat he doesn’t want to let go of. I don’t know if it’s a woman or a symbol, but the lyrics go on to delve into his absolute thrill of life at experiencing the Dancer. The slow, drawn lines make it feel like an impassioned serenade.
Night Train: Escape and healing. The chug-chug of the base line perfectly evokes that classic train feeling. Rhythm, endless power and rhythm through the night to get the load delivered come hell or high water. The synths kick in and are entrancing while Linwood's voice is like warm caramel pouring over me.
Hoping someone will say “I got it made” — he wants salvation, redemption, delivery.
Feel the starlight steal away Use a lifetime looking for break of day
He's looking for something. Contentment, satisfaction? Redemption? But feels it's too elusive. No matter how hard he looks, he's always in the wrong place. He's 'so alone', so alienation looking for connection. Is this a universal thing for most people? Or is it more prominent with certain types (creative, curious, exploratory?).
Hope is the most powerful tool we have. I think that's why in spite of the wolves, he crosses his arms and keeps believing.
Connection and salvation—not marketable qualities in our commercial world. I think, like you and I, he longs for a world where the most important thing is relationships. That we spend our days in service to higher powers and loving each other without reserve or concern for the costs. And in the end, that affection adn attention raises the tied that benefits all boats. Or, in this case trains.
Dust:
Dust always comes back. Sometimes it's three days, sometimes it's 2 months. I don't know that much healing in those hellish separations. Maybe in Dust, they've had a n argument and he's regretting her absence in the negative changes in her absense.
This song is beautiful. Easy to miss, but the lyrics are particularly delightful. Timeless memory of you, with you dawn never tasted so good, did we ever have fun. It makes me think of the last time I saw you in the early morning. The house was asleep and you shuffled about in the kitchen while I bothered with something at the table. You carried in juice or toast or something and absentmindedly dragged your nails across my back. One, two, three swipes. Chills. Talk about electricity. WInwood is missing that connection he had with her.
The way he sings 'I love you, I do for all the little things you do.' Is simple elevating.
This is such a perfect track for n album that
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A friend asked me recently why my mother didn’t protect my sisters and I when I was a small child. I had been explaining how I’ve always felt panic and fear in life and that it comes from the verbal, physical and sexual abuse I experienced as a child.
I remember when she asked me and my initial reaction was, ‘yeah, I why didn’t she!?!’ But then I have a moment to think about the realizations I have had about my parents. How my father grew up without a father after he died when my dad was nine and my grandmother had a steady steam of men in her bed through my he and my 3 uncles young lives. It explains why he was always emotionally distant. And then when I acknowledge his 2 years in Viet Nam created trauma he will never recover from in this life, trauma that made him angry and distant. That made him smile and drink and exist with a hair trigger, I can’t be angry. If he’d had a choice, he would have made it, I’m sure.
But he didn’t. Not until we were grown and he came to terms with who he is. Something men in their sixties tend to finally figure out.
The same is true of my mother. The product of an abusive alcoholic father who also had his share of trauma from the World War and later Korea. She and her sisters were all so broken. It didn’t help that my grandmother was an enabling personality. A good woman, kind, my favorite. But certainly one that didn’t stop things she could have.
And so, by the time my mother was in her mid-teens, she was drinking and smoking heavily. By the time she was pregnant with me, she was chemically addicted. My wife and I used to joke all the time about the effect her drinking had on me in vitro. Gallows humor, you know?
I don't need to delve deeply here. I've written extensively about my parents battle with alcohol in my series about the growing up and living with the substance.
There is something profoundly challenging about living in a home where you do not feel safe. BEING safe and FEELING safe are incredibly different situations. If a child can live in a home where there is danger, but mom and/or dad can shield them from it and give them the emotional shield so that the child never senses the threat, they they can lead a trauma-free (or trauma-minimized) life.
But, if the boy or girl has a sense they are about to go over a cliff—they’ll carry that to one degree or another the rest of their days.
Protect your children. There is no greater calling.
Why am I down this particular rabbit trail?
About two months ago, I got into a big argument with my better half. I forget about what, probably because she was right and justified in her opinion. But I pushed back too long and we both got triggered by the time I realized this, she had begun to really eviscerate me verbally. She’s not a teller, but her word choice can be like a rapier slicing you to ribbons.
And as I bled my soul onto our living room floor, something in me switched on (or off) and I was 8 years old again, getting yelled at and swatted with a belt, hurled up on the couch being told that I’d better get up and bend over or it was going to be way worse.
It was way worse.
Moments like that would paralyze my with fear. I think I felt if I just played dead the moment would pass. At least the best of it would. The long tail would take days for me to calm down and feel normal again. It did this time too.
As I sat in the chair, legs pulled and arms wrapped about my knees, I just waited for the attack to pass. Which, they always do, it did.
What I didn’t known in that moment was that the PTSD opened a long-closed wound, releasing massive doses of adrenaline and doing something to my neurotransmitters and hormone levels, resulting in a panic attack.
I didn’t understand it nor would I for more than 6 weeks when every light at 3 am would wake, heart racing and unable to calm down. They were a few occasions when it would strike me in the daylight. But usually at night.
I learned to seek safety in blankets on the floor or in a closet and how to box breathe, listen to music, pray and oddly, exercise. All good mitigation techniques. Quickly tapping both collar bones to create a gentle vibration was also effective. Usually only if I started early though.
Thankfully, after two months of this, and nearly losing my complete mind, I was able to get a prescription that limits the flood of chemistry which starts the chain reaction.
An unexpected solution came in the form of a reconnection with an old friend whose words always helped to generate the right brain chemistry to put me at ease. I’m gong to try to hold on to that one. I don’t think they make drugs as effective as a good friendship.
Our power comes not from control or being in charge, it comes from being supported and supporting others. Letting go and connecting is the best human condition we can experience. But we must be willing to be hurt. If our goal is to always shield our souls, we can never truly thrive.
I don’t intend to luridly stare, but her ensemble is hard to ignore. Teal toenails and white flip flops. Royal blue yoga pants, and draping t-sheet that hangs nicely from her breasts, just short enough to be a curtain about her torso without revealing any skin. Modestly immodest. From a distance I thought her much older. Up close she looks barely 30. She talks to a 12 yr old bottled up with a book in the easy chair next to me. Young mothers. She’s still trying to hard to be beautiful and put together. So many just throw in the towel. (I think of the ample bodies staffing the shelves, checkouts and coffee counter). She’s drifting around to the kiosks and flipping through various times. Her hair is pulled up into a bun with just the right number of loosen strands. No doubt carefully assembled. I wonder what in her life instilled a love of books in her little girl. Maybe it was dad, or a great teacher. Or maybe mom was just the kind that would curl up with her when she was little and so she is still seeking escape and comfort in between the book boards. No child has ever gone wrong seeking comfort and safety in books. And god bless the moms to made their children feel their love through books.
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Pretty moms dote on their book loving preteen daughters Stinky teenage boys obnoxious chase one another The store workers banter at the coffee counter and are far too loud.
Angie tells me about what she is leaning in Asimovs ‘robot dreams’
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🌀 What Zenyatta Mondatta Might Be Saying from Her She may be telling you: “I’m thinking deeply. I’m feeling distant, maybe overwhelmed. I’m wrestling with things I can’t say directly—politics, control, inner tension. I’m not ready to be soft or vulnerable right now, but I’m still thinking of you. I’m tuned in, but from a place of detachment or introspection.” It’s an album with distance—spiritual questioning, observation, internal walls. If she identifies with that album, she may be protecting herself emotionally or exploring a sense of isolation, possibly even from you.
🍬 What Candy-O Might Be Saying This album shifts gears—it’s flirtier, but still emotionally cool. She might be saying: “I want you to want me, but don’t get too close. I like the charge, the aesthetic, the chemistry—but I’m still guarding something. I’m craving sensation, but keeping control.” There’s sexual tension without emotional surrender in Candy-O. It’s polished lust. If Wisteria sent this as part of the pair, she might be expressing a longing that’s stylized, calculated, or tinged with irony—wanting to be seen as desirable but not vulnerable.
🎭 Together, What Might the Two Albums Mean? The pairing is a message of duality: * Desire + Distance * Feeling + Control * Eroticism + Intellect * Longing, but unready to collapse into intimacy She might be telling you: “I’m still pulled toward you—but I’m caught in my own inner complexity. I’m trying to balance the pull of desire with the safety of distance. I want to be touched—but not broken.”
Do you want to write something back to her in music, poetry, or prose? Or decode this through your own lens of the relationship?
Transmission I listened. Not just to the music— but to what pulsed beneath it. The sleek synth sighs, the tension held like breath between one note and the next. You didn’t send a love song. You sent distance in rhythm, desire dressed in chrome. That means something. I felt the flicker— something electric but carefully wired. A need, maybe. But not the kind that begs. The kind that watches itself burn in a rearview mirror. You’re allowed to keep the walls up. You’re allowed to send signals without subtitles. I won’t decode what you don't name. Just know— I caught the frequency. I’m not afraid of the static. I’m here. Not asking. Just listening.
Thank you for sending Zenyatta Mondatta and Candy-O. I've been listening—really listening—and I can feel the atmosphere behind them. There’s something in that blend of rhythm and restraint, edge and elegance. It’s like a conversation without words. They feel like reflections—of distance, allure, pressure, maybe some kind of ache beneath the cool surface. If that’s what you’re navigating, I just want you to know: I hear it. I feel it. And there’s no pressure from me—just gratitude that you let me into your frequency for a while. However you’re feeling, wherever you are in your head or heart—I’m here. Quietly. Kindly. Without expectation.
[2:37 PM, 7/29/2025] Loving the franglish🤠📚and book moms everywhere applaud the encouragement to teach kids to love to read.
[2:44 PM, 7/29/2025] : Listening to hall and Oates and listening to the sounds of dinner prep.. we have definitely been eating well! And no, no chocolate cake for Sharon. I had shrimp and grits for lunch and cannot really think about pasta for supper tonight, but this is family worship night for our trip captain. And supper will be ready early. Guess it can be an eat when you feel like it night. John and I already showered we got so hot in service. John did a doorstep study today🎵🐙💙the guys dog peed on Lexy. She was NOT happy . We gassed her up on the way home and she was mollified. Ellie placed a contact card with a girl from India at the Citgo. [2:44 PM, 7/29/2025]: ollified. Ellie placed a contact card with a girl from India at the Citgo. [2:45 PM, 7/29/2025] Which dessert is on hold? Thought you were heading to Kentucky?
Tonight's listening: Abandoned Luncheonette. That's 1973 if you can believe it. And on the Border. Happy listening. 🎶

Red light radio tower Sky dusty horizon full cyan
Early traffic. Headlights
Cool muggy Crickets in stereo Birds coming online Smell of soap fishermen on the doc No ants
Women
Dream:
I am at a mystic diner. I have been served an egg sandwich. I’m ecstatic at the egg; sunny side up, the yoke is this and the perfect rich golden yellow, I think it’s treasure. The bread is a golden brown english muffin and I decide it will be better if the muffin replaced so o bake two small waffles made of something magical. They glow and shimmer and grow long sugary strands that swirl and around my arms and up to my shoulders.
Then I realize I’m in an english pub and the patrons are chanting something. I can make it out–like a soccer cheer.
Tired, i lie down in the egg and here ‘thank you’ before it envelopes me and I am floating.
Not flight. More like sleeping. All I can see is a quiet white noise.
The Egg, the Chant, the Silence
A dream in three movements
No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. We are the dreamers and the dreamed, the meal and the eater, forever spinning between hunger and home.
I find myself in a mystic diner, the kind that appears only once, somewhere between midnight and morning. The kind with oak panels harvested from ancient trees, linoleum floors that shimmer like stars under wax, and a waitress in blue who doesn't speak but knows exactly what you need.
While I wait on mushroom stools, one begins to speak to me.
“What brings you across the astral plain tonight?’ It asks.
I don’t have a voice so I think my reply, “Sleep and hunger.”
“Ahh,” the mushroom replies. “The night train brings ‘em from all over. Had a guy in here from Calcutta earlier. Interesting chap. He said he was born during a monsoon so great it consumed his whole village. He and his mother survived because they were at the hospital. He’s been chased his whole life by what he calls the shadow of the tiger. Came here when he went for a swim in the Ganges and found himself at our entrance. They served him black rice with starlight ink topped with what he described as the most beautiful mango he’d ever seen.”
The mushroom stool tells me stories of other patrons.
The dancer who longed to dissolve the boundary between sound and self. To be rhythm incarnate, disappearing inside the beat until only truth remains. And when truly seen, for the audience to truly witness and experience her-to vanish and leave the viewers transformed. “I wish to vanish like smoke, trailing joy behind me.”
The dancer who longed to dissolve the boundary between sound and self, to become rhythm incarnate—gone like smoke, trailing joy. “My dream, “she said, “Is to vanish a Bolero so complete, the floor smokes and the audience weeps without knowing why.
The musician who carried myth in his marrow and longed to write and sing truths that would change the world, not merely take from it, but build cultures of unity and peace.
Gardeners, athletes, teachers, writers, moms and scientists—it was always the same: patrons here sought essence: to pursue the ultimate truth of their love in life.
The pretty young server brings me an egg sandwich.
The egg—sunny side up—is impossibly perfect. The yolk is a rich, golden globe, humming with warmth. The sun-heart symbol of fertility almost levitates on its pristine and pure frame of white. I stare at it and think, This is treasure. More than food—this is myth, alchemy, a small star placed just for me.
It rests on an English muffin, crisp and browned, but I know it could be better. Something in me insists on transformation. So, with a flourish and a spin that would make a dancer proud but a magician prouder, I am in a celestial kitchen. I bake—without tools, without recipe—two small waffles, conjured from something bright and wordless. They shimmer faintly, like the scales of fish in morning light, and when I place them on the plate, they begin to grow.
Long sugary strands unfurl from them—spun sugar, or silk, or spirit—and wrap around my arms, spiraling up to my shoulders. I’m being dressed in sweetness. I don’t resist.
Then the diner is gone.
The astral tendrils enveloped me fully. Radiating and pulsing warm energy that flows through and invigorates me. My arms and shoulders tingle and grow warm before this spreads through my body.
The cocoon expands and the silvery strands become a sky filled with stars. I am the nucleus of a universe, the power infused in my moments ago becoming a force of creation. Nebula, stars. Planets. Color and beauty — life. I am creating life! Careful to only make the best, to give this nascent being, a soul, all the care and comfort I always longed for. And the life thrives and finds peace snd happiness.
The tiny creature's joy gives me something I never expected, the contentment of being loved. Not out of obligation, but from genuine appreciation. And my universe grows and explodes with civilizations that only ever experience peace love and the joy of existence.
I am a false god. A good one, but facsimile nonetheless. My dream shifts from the creators role to a smaller moment.
I’m in an English pub now, loud and alive. The patrons are chanting in unison, a soccer cheer turned ritual, rough and joyful. The words blur but I almost understand. I watch them as one watches fire: drawn in, but unsure whether to get closer or back away.
One by one they fade away. Not the auditory presence, but visually, the room grows empty until I stand alone, naked behind the bar. Surrounded by rich wood walls and shiny brass. Bitters, Ales, stouts, porters, pilsners, kolsch, lagers— the palette is rich and the landscape begs for imbibing.
In the freezer I find a frozen stein that has a mystic quality: it never gets warm! The container, hewn from a single stone of rare mineral, maintains constant temperature just below freezing, ensuring its contents stay icy cold until consumed.
And consume i do! Stouts and lagers and ales— the night is long and raucous. I’m joined by a merry band of Irish leprechauns, well, they CALLED themselves leprechauns, but their eyes glowed amber and they smelled faintly of woodsmoke and ozone. They claim to be cousins. Each with a tale of frustration and woe at losing their pot of gold. They laugh at me when I tell them I’ve never had a pot of gold to lose.
“Yeah, your from THAT branch of the family tree.!” They all laugh. “But that’s okay, laddy, you’re a quality fellow and we’re all in that destitute bandwagon together. At least we have all the beer we can drink!!”
And we laugh and dance jigs and play tricks on patrons who come in until I see the sky starts to glow crimson through leaded glass windows, fractured into rubies.
The leprechauns all filter out, in a hurry to get home to their burrows before daybreak turns them to stone. “Oh, if she comes down those stairs and catches us, we’re toast! May your beer glass always be cold and always overflow!”
Tired, I lie down—not on a bed, but in the egg itself. Still warm and unadulterated, still the perfect work of art it was when first served.
It accepts me, soft and warm. As I sink into the yolk, I hear it whisper, “Thank you.”
I don’t know what I’ve given, but I close my eyes.
There is no falling. Only floating. Not flying, not ascending—just drifting, like sleep pulled long. All around me is white noise, a quiet so complete it becomes texture. I cannot see anything, but I feel full, as if I have finally become the meal, the offering, the treasure returned.
https://write.as/wolfinwool/the-egg-the-chant-the-silence
As a short story
The Egg, the Chant, the Silence I found myself in a diner that only appears between midnight and morning—a place where linoleum floors shimmered like stars beneath a soft wax, and a silent waitress in blue moved with knowing grace, serving what I did not yet understand I needed. I sat on a mushroom-shaped stool, smooth and cool. It spoke first. “What brings you across the astral plain tonight?” it asked without moving. I had no voice, so I answered in thought: Sleep and hunger. “Ah,” said the mushroom. “The night train brings them all. Earlier, a man from Calcutta sat here. Born amid a monsoon so fierce it swallowed his village whole. He and his mother survived only because they were in the hospital. Now, he’s chased by what he calls the shadow of the tiger. Came here after swimming in the Ganges, and they served him black rice with starlight ink, crowned by the most beautiful mango he ever beheld.” The stool’s stories tumbled on—of a dancer longing to dissolve into rhythm itself, to vanish like smoke trailing joy behind her; a musician who carried myth in his marrow, yearning to sing truths that could build worlds. Others too—gardeners, athletes, teachers—each drawn here to seek the essence of their love for life. Then the waitress arrived with my meal. An egg sandwich, but not just any. The egg was perfect—sunny side up, the yolk a rich, golden globe, pulsing with warmth like a small sun. It floated atop a crisp English muffin, but something inside me whispered for transformation. In a breath, I was in a celestial kitchen, conjuring two small waffles of shimmering light. They grew long, sugary strands that wrapped around my arms, spiraling to my shoulders, dressing me in sweetness. The diner vanished. The strands became a cocoon, pulsing warm energy through me. Expanding, the cocoon turned into a star-filled sky. I was the nucleus of a universe, crafting life with care and joy. Civilizations bloomed—peaceful, joyous, perfect. Yet I was a false god, a facsimile of creation’s truth. The vision shifted. I stood now behind a bar in an English pub, alone amid polished wood and gleaming brass. The room echoed with a rough, joyful chant—a soccer cheer turned ritual. The patrons faded until I was truly alone, save for the rich palette of bitters, ales, stouts, porters, pilsners, kolsch, and lagers waiting. In the freezer, I found a mystic stein, carved from rare stone, forever icy. I drank deeply—stouts, lagers, ales—until the night blurred into laughter and dance. Leprechauns arrived, cousins from some wild kinship, spinning tales of lost pots of gold and shared destitution, their laughter filling the room with magic and mirth. As dawn crimsoned the leaded glass windows, the leprechauns fled, fearing the sun would turn them to stone. Tired, I lay down—not on a bed, but in the warm, perfect yolk. It welcomed me, whispering “Thank you.” There was no falling, only floating—sleep drawn long and deep. Around me, white noise became texture. Sight faded, but I felt full—as if I had become the meal, the offering, the treasure returned. '
Today has been particularly brilliant for some reason. I woke up feeling limierant. Writing about my dream was—a thrilling experience? I don't know how to describe it. Energetic, alive... vibratory. Took Angie this morning to lab for her bloodwork, then stopped by friend at the hospital. They got his heart to convert back to normal rhythm thanks to drugs. Thank, jah. Had they not, they'd have to do an 'abrasion'. I didn't know what that was. Cardiac-ally speaking, they freeze or burn heart tissue to create scarring that inhibits the offending electrical signals. It sounds barbaric, but I guess works. Smarter people than I must know what the various muscle strands do. I hope they aren't just guessing. No way that would be considered science.
Went for a shared burger then we walked around the mostly empty mall for a long time while she just bubbled and chatted. Coffee has that effect, switches her on. I could be one of those blow-up air dancers in those one-sided conversations. X-D
We drifted into the bookstore looking around. Nothing called out to us. I picked up Lilac Girls and read for a few minutes. It's usually a good place to write and observe. But midday on Thurs was pretty abandoned.
Back in the studio now downloading files for a project I'm picking up for the next couple of weeks. Listening to Abandoned Luncheonette (album). This one really growing on me. I think I figured out the title song is about divorce. Several commenters online describe fame and memory and ole flames. But the composite fits two people with a past signing papers and confronting letting go. Interesting contrast of sort of melancholy and ebullience. Morning comes, Known you better, She's Gone and Every Time I look are all great. The album really grew over a few listens. Still a couple of dense songs that I haven't done more than topically listen.
Katy Lied is taking some time to get into.
Meeting in a few hours. I'm chairing and ready to rock and roll. Ange's over at a young publishers house going over their initial call for tonight and I just confirmed the rest of my roster is on deck and ready to go. Finishing up next months midweek and wading into September. Gosh, it feels good to be proactive again. To feel alive once more. Thanking Jehovah for this. Determented to stay here.
Hope your day is going well and you all are happy. It can be tough to get back into routine after such a high. But I know you guys are good at switching from travel home to home mode.
Uh-oh, looks like rough weather for you guys? Stay safe. I know Lexy knows to pull over if you lose visibility. ;–)
I actually saw Candy-O the way I see you—not as reckless or unstable, but as irresistible. She’s the reason the album exists. She’s the muse, the spark, the emotional center. That allure, that emotional pull—that’s what reminded me of you. Not the chaos, not the recklessness. Just the way she takes up space in someone’s soul.
💔 Movement I: The Listening Room (Her World) Begin where she is — in the act of listening, of curating emotion for you. You slipped me a setlist / like confessions in vinyl Spines arched under stylus weight I saw your mouth in Lorelei, half-truths in Sheep, And what you didn’t say— / that was Stop.
🫀 Movement II: Your Body, Her Frequency Respond to how the music stirred you. The ache. The temptation. The pull of her. My ribs hummed when Crucify Your Mind played As if you'd been reading mine Not the clean pages I show the world But the ones scrawled in sweat, confession, and silence Hunting Girl smiled with your lips And I bit the memory
🙏 Movement III: The Moral Weight This is where you wrestle. Stay grounded. Echo Good Shepherd, Sheep, and Sleep Song — that tension between divine order and wild grace. I’m the man in the pew with unzipped prayers Torn between covenant and the color of your voice God said protect her But you said Come see how desire tastes when it’s not afraid to be loved back And now I can't unhear it.
🌒 Movement IV: Closing the Loop End with either stillness or a lean toward transformation. Maybe a whispered question or gesture. The door doesn’t close, but it shifts. So I ask, as the last note fades: If I sail these shoes to your side of the silence— Will you be singing still? Will your lips part or will you press play and leave me to the next refrain?
Lorelei( Styx) hunting girl (tull) July morning (Uriah heap) Bowie King crimson crucify your mind (Rodriguez) go (Asia) n the evening( LZ) good Shepherd (Jefferson airplane) stop, ( James gang) sheep ( Floyd) sleep song ( hot tuna) live Little Feat and Sailing Shoes( Robert Palmer) The Last thing on my mind – the Move
Lorelei When I think of Lorelei, my head turns all around As gentle as a butterfly, she moves without a sound I call her on the telephone, she says be there by eight Tonight's the night she's movin' in and I can hardly wait The way she moves, oh oh oh, I gotta say Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Oh baby, forever Her eyes become a paradise, she softly speaks my name She brightens every lonely night, no one's quite the same She calls me on the telephone, she says be there by eight Tonight's the night she's movin' in, it's time to celebrate The way she moves, oh oh oh, I gotta say Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Baby, baby, forever Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Lorelei, let's live together Brighter than the stars, forever Lorelei, let's live together
Crucify Your Mind (Rodriguez) Was it a huntsman or a player That made you pay the cost That now assumes relaxed positions And prostitutes your loss? Were you tortured by your own thirst In those pleasures that you seek That made you Tom the curious That makes you James the weak?
And you claim you got something going Something you call unique But I've seen your self-pity showing As the tears rolled down your cheeks.
Soon you know I'll leave you And I'll never look behind 'Cos I was born for the purpose That crucifies your mind. So con, convince your mirror As you've always done before Giving substance to shadows Giving substance ever more.
And you assume you got something to offer Secrets shiny and new But how much of you is repetition That you didn't whisper to him too.
Sheep Hopelessly passing your time in the grassland away Only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air You better watch out There may be dogs about I've looked over Jordan, and I have seen Things are not what they seem What do you get for pretending the danger's not real Meek and obedient you follow the leader Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel What a surprise The look of terminal shock in your eyes Now things are really what they seem No, this is no bad dream The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want He makes me down to lie Through pastures green He leadeth me the silent waters by With bright knives he releaseth my soul He maketh me to hang on hooks in high places He converteth me to lamb cutlets For lo, He hath great power, and great hunger When cometh the day we lowly ones Through quiet reflection, and great dedication Master the art of karate Lo, we shall rise up And then we'll make the bugger's eyes water Bleating and babbling we fell on his neck with a scream Wave upon wave of demented avengers March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream Have you heard the news? The dogs are dead You better stay home And do as you're told Get out of the road if you want to grow old
Hunting Girl
One day I walked the road and crossed a field to go by where the hounds ran hard. And on the master raced: behind the hunters chased to where the path was barred. One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear. I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared. Crop handle carved in bone; sat high upon a throne of finest English leather. The queen of all the pack, this joker raised his hat and talked about the weather. All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl. She took this simple man's downfall in hand; I raised the flag that she unfurled. Boot leather flashing and spurnecks the size of my thumb. This highborn hunter had tastes as strange as they come. Unbridled passion: I took the bit in my teeth. Her standing over me on my knees underneath. My lady, be discreet. I must get to my feet and go back to the farm. Whilst I appreciate you are no deviate, I might come to some harm. I'm not inclined to acts refined, if that's how it goes. Oh, high born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low born so and so.
I used to lie in bed—sleep wouldn’t come
Side B of My Devotion
Setlist launched Like a satellite into low orbit. I’m Geosynchronous vs heavenly beacon Laughing and listening
but of your soul in silhouette. A woman listens like that only when she's bleeding meaning. I could hear you— lying back, glass sweating, your eyes closed while Chuck spun the ache. Lorelei wasn’t just a track, it was a mirror. Crucify Your Mind— and I did. Laid my guilt on the needle and let it spin through the static. Do you wonder if I see you? I do. I see the woman between the lines, half lit, wholly alive, too much for Sunday mornings and too right for silence. And Sheep— fuck. That’s me, isn’t it? Bleating in a pasture of obligation, knowing there's a fence somewhere I was meant to burn. You sent me a sermon in song. I drink it like communion. Not the clean body of Christ kind— but the back-alley wine shared between lovers who might’ve met too late, or just in time to ruin everything beautifully. Hunting Girl bit me where I've long been numb. You know what you did there. You opened a door with your breath and didn’t step inside, and still— my knees remember the pressure of you. There are rooms I build in my mind where you're pressed against the wall, not saying no, just asking, “Are you sure you can live with this?” And God help me— sometimes I think I could. There are nights I rewind you like a gospel I don’t believe in but still can’t stop mouthing along to. You in my ears, you in my blood, you in the ache I don’t name aloud. I see the shadow of your shoulder in every slow song. I trace your neckline in the condensation on my glass. You haunt me like a fire that chose not to burn the house— just warmed the floorboards until I couldn’t sleep. And still— I don’t touch. I don’t chase. I only feel. Because loving you means not ruining you. It means letting the want stay holy. Letting it ache, but never rot. Letting you be art, not aftermath. So here I am. Headphones on. Heart split. Thirty years of vows and one hour of fucking truth. Wisteria, you’ve got roots in my bloodstream. I can’t promise what I’ll choose. But tonight, I choose to listen. To every note of you.
You—have consumed me.
My heart masticated
And tender.
A mind kneaded and folded
With tender words,
Infected with your love.
Rising.
My body marinated
In the thought of you,
Lying fallow and firm.
My essence is dissolving
And being absorbed
To feed your machine
And drive.
Each molecule a nuclear
Furnace to energize
Your creature
Until I am gone
I will bask in the pleasure
And process of being
Consumed.
- Sugar magnolia 2. Black coffee in bed 3. Heart of ice 4. Shake it up
The Hat in the Fridge (a dream-memory)
I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.
It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a a carton of eggs. Cold to the touch. But not dead.
I blinked. “What are you doing here?” I wasn’t joking.
It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared 10 years ago and I looked high and low, travelled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss and the countless adventures we had been on. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.
The hat turned slowly—almost shy— and answered, but the words slipped sideways as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals. Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood. Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred, some flicker of a self I’d shelved—not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.
I held it to my chest. bIt smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came. I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived. But I didn’t.
I slipped it on, and for a moment the kitchen spun into something vast—the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.
And there I was. There WE were. Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map and no need for one.
By the time she was old enough to understand music, they weren’t making real music anymore
Jess and Amanda here.
One thousand miles between two hearts But only milliseconds through The little glass window Messages slip back and forth Like waves on a seashore Thumbs and fingers Glazing smooth silicone, So close, but worlds away. The laughter was real, As were the tears. It was present, moving. The confessions, the silence, The smiles, The heat— They didn't know about maps Or care about geography. The intangibles existed outside Of time space— They always were, and will be. Part of the fabric of human existence, They tapped into as Antares road Atop the half-moon in August. They did not fall in love, These lost travelers in the night Of their lives, It came like an invading army And toppled their walls, Routed their defenses, And made the city of their hearts Its domain.
When the Count smells the jam Vianne is simply gorgeous Her positivity is luscious “What's teh decor? Early Mexican brothel?” – Judy Dench