Change hurts. But so does staying the same.

I was terrified of a few things as a kid:

1. Glowing red eyes in the dark 2. Having my feet molested 3. The wrath of my parents 4. Cicada husks

You know the ones.


Those empty exoskeletons clinging to tree trunks, fence posts, and brick walls—tiny monster shells with hook-like feet and slit backs, like something that crawled out of a horror movie and left its skin behind.

My cousins thought it was hilarious to pluck them off trees and stick them in people’s hair.

Ugh.

I'm an adult now, and they still give me the creeps.
 The irony? I actually like cicadas. The real, living ones.

I recently read a great Bukowski poem where he complains that “cicada” is used too much in poetry—like it’s a literary silver bullet.
 Use the word cicada, and boom: you’re published.

cicada

writers love to use the word “cicada” in a poem. it makes them believe that they are there, that they have done it. every time I see this word in a poem, I think, damn it, haven't the editors caught on yet? that it's a con? a way to milk the game?

and look at me: here I'm using it: “cicada.” well, that means that this poem surely will get published. see? it works.

Cicada, cicada, cicada.

Poof!


Beetle-cicada appears , dressed in black and white stripes like some kind of gothic referee and grants you publishing.

I won't wait for the check on this one.

What's wild is how they spend most of their lives underground—quiet, unseen, gnawing on roots, cool and hidden from birds and beetles and snakes. 
 Then one day, it's time.
 They rise.
 Transform.
 Sing their strange song.

They become summer.

Last night, I dreamed I was having breakfast with a giant cicada. Everything it said came out in that raspy ch-ch-ch-ch sound, but somehow, I understood perfectly.

It liked the tea.
 The eggs, not so much.
 (It poked at them with a claw and muttered something that sounded judgey.)

After breakfast, it handed me a tiny black helmet—custom-made for my dream head—and motioned for me to climb onto the back of its motorcycle.


Well, not exactly a motorcycle.


It was more like a cross between a mandolin, a grasshopper, and a comet.

We zipped through clouds, dodged between Saturn's rings, and finally landed on a shimmering planet where the trees glowed blue and hummed softly.


Cicadas. Everywhere.


Not just insects, but tall, glistening beings—armored, radiant, some still cracking open their backs to let their new selves crawl out into the light. These beings weren't living underground for seventeen years.

My cicada guide turned to me.


“Ch-ch-ch,” it said.


Then it offered me a thin blade made of light and pointed to my chest.

It was asking me to molt.

I hesitated.


Tried to laugh it off.


But my hands were shaking.

I looked down at my body—soft, unfinished, full of pressure just beneath the skin.
 I could feel the new me beneath it, wriggling for air. But I was terrified.


I was afraid of the change.

Afraid of what I’d leave behind. What it might mean to become something else—something I’ve always been, just hidden under a layer of politeness, duty, fear, routine, marriage, roles.

What if I shed my old skin and people looked at what I used to be and recoiled?


Not because it was ugly, necessarily, but because it was real.
 Because it wasn’t neat or acceptable or easy to explain.

What if they said,
 “Oh. So this is who you were all along?”


And worse—what if they were right?

But deep beneath that fear, in the marrow of the dream, in the hush between the cicada’s ch-ch-ch’s, I realized:


I am aching to molt.

I want to become the self I’ve half-dreamed but never dared to wake up as.
 The guy telling the truth, even when it hurts.
 A creature walking away from the roles that no longer fit.
 The one who chooses aliveness over approval.


Who writes something so raw it makes people gasp.


Who kisses someone in the rain without checking if it’s allowed.
 Finally admiting he’s tired of being obedient.
 Who wants more than endurance.
 Who wants to feel joy and danger and awe and yes.

Yes.

That’s the sound the cicada really made, I think.


Not ch-ch-ch.


But yes yes yes.


Yes to transformation.


Yes to exposure.


Yes to the strange, shimmering self inside the husk.

But still, I couldn’t do it.
 Not yet.

Even in a dream, I couldn’t crack open.
 And that’s okay.
 A dream isn't asking me to molt.
 Just showing me that I could.

My guide, revved the mandolin-comet-bike. And we rocketed back to home.

Without change, we all end up on The Road to Nowhere

Close My Eyes Forever

Any World (Will Do)

#dream #essay #journal #writing #music #cicada

2025-08-07 18:00:00

Levity is Good for the Soul. Intelligence is good for the mind. This should soothe both!

Greetings, dear reader! Today thought I’d catch you up on some of Mister Tom Gauld’s latest and greatest. Please visit Tom’s website if you can and give him a little love. You won’t regret it!! ❤️

On the meantime, here are a few laughs.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #comic #tomguald

2025-07-13 11:30:00

Only summer sounds like this

Summer is universally loved. In spite of the heat, there's a great charm in the sweat and the being of out of doors that no other time of year quite matches. As I walked out this afternoon to decompress, it struck me how I haven't taken a single moment to enjoy my summer.

Here's a little glimpse of that moment for me. Join me, won't you? Taste it.

Sorry about the audio. Wind noise is aggravating.

The bees this year are't quiet as robust. I think I might need to harvest some honey. Maybe an abundance is making them lazy? or their weak? Not sure. but probably about half of this activity right now.

2025-07-11 19:25:00 #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

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

Path of a 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 #100daystooffset #writing

2025-07-22 12:00:00

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

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 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 ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. 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. It 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.

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

'Dad's heart stopped after I said amen to a prayer'

At 11:44am Sunday November 9, 2025, the Conductor took his last breath. My friend, a minister of the Bible, watched his father pass away even as he said a benediction for him. It is heartbreaking and beautiful.

It was a 3 month long journey that resulted in the Conductor laying in a hospital bed for more than 30 days all told over the course of the illness.

I read recently that none of us truly become men until our fathers die. Dubious logic, but absolutely beautiful poetry. And in the generations of today, losing our fathers may be the thing that is needed to trigger the metamorphosis of maturity.

It is a hard passage if it's true. I think I'd prefer to be Peter Pan if it is.

The Conductor and his family have been in and around my life since childhood. His widow, the Queen of Swords, is among my closest friends. He was a vaguer component for decades but in the last 10 years has emerged as a clear cheerleader for this wolf, often telling me how much he appreciated everything I've done for and with his family.

He was a weird guy. One of our friends describes meeting him 30 years ago in a suit with no socks or shoes. Probably about the best and most succinct way of understanding this complex creature.

He was gone a lot from his family. Conductors have to conduct (trains as well as symphonies) and his route kept him on the road for days at a time. It provided a good living for his family, but the absence took it's toll emotionally.

I don't' think it was the job so much as it was the baggage of his life, but he struggled with addiction for decades before finally kicking the heavy stuff. Though he was hooked on tobacco until things got serious for him about 3 months ago.

He had a sister who struggled emotionally too. She passed away a few years ago from heart failure. The same thing that killed her brother. His sons are now rightly worried about their own life-pumps.

As I have watched him over my life, I have seen the Conductor through the eyes of his sons and wife, all close friends. They always hoped better for him and honored him as best they could in their own flawed ways. But he could never measure up to the standard the Bible holds out to those who hope for the approval of Jesus and His father.

And so I did, as righteous men often do, judge him. Inferior, broken, needing to change. But, in all the years I knew him, he remained absolutely confident that he would have a place in God's kingdom. As a man myself who feels unworthy of that role, I always found it eyebrow raising.

He would need to change this and that in order to yadda yadda. It's a life-long mantra of the Bible-thumper. In recent years, I've started to change my understanding and softened a lot. On others as well as myself—well somedays I'm less soft on myself, but trying. And I've started to see that there are good-hearted humans who just cannot meet that standard. Something in them is broken beyond repair and they are doing the best they can.

We all have demons. Some of us are better at cowing them than others.

Some of us have to hide under the bed, or behind a haze of chemical stupor in order to function. It isn't fair to say 'you aren't good enough' if you're doing the best you can. I think the Conductor was. I think I am.

Sometimes all you can do is limp through life.

In the end, he was a kind man, a good man—if flawed. In truth, I've known many 'better' men from a righteousness point of view who didn't have half the kindness or thoughtfulness. Maybe that's why we discuss Jesus we focus not on his righteousness, which no man could match, but rather, his goodness.

He was a guidepost. A point of consistency on the landscape of my existence that's gone now. It will be far worse for his wife and his sons, but the loss of that waypoint will effect us all.

It's terrible and sad. Another loss in a long line that will just continue until the Wolf breathes his last breath. And that's not the scary part; the last breath. The scary part is all the unknown between today and that moment.

Death is only a problem for the living.

Good night, Conductor. I'll keep waiting faithfully for my own line. I'll wait as best I can. Broken, tired and unworthy. Thank you for showing me that it's less about what others think of you and more about being honest with yourself. It's a weight I am still learning to carry.

Just like all of us.

#death #memorial #essay #writing #100daystooffset

originally published: 2025-11-10 15:00:00

Sometimes, love burns too brightly to be held in the palm.

A streak blurred across the night sky somewhere remote. A witness, if there was a witness (for only the crickets watched tonight), would describe it as a shooting star. Only much dimmer and slower.

The streak arched down in the dark, making a quiet thud as it impacted. There was a small puff of dust as whatever it was tumbled into the tall waving grass, carving out a long channel through the field.

The crickets grew silent long enough to feel safe again. In short order, the stalks regained their composure and stood erect enough for the wind to restore the channel and the object disappeared into the obscurity of a sea of green.

If the crickets could report an observation, it would be that there lay a small boy. He was curled up asleep, wearing a loose cotton shirt the color of faded sky, and linen trousers rolled at the cuffs, both worn thin. His feet were bare. There were little bits of dried stubble stuck in his blonde hair and dirt smudging his face.

He didn't seem hurt, only resting. And the crickets quickly lost interest and went back to singing their serenade into the windy night. And so he slept for many hours.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was blurry darkness. The sounds of rustling grass was like the undeniable roar of a waterfall. The smell of young green stalks filled his nostrils and he could taste the soil.

His body ached, and he tried to remember what had happened, and how he came to be here sprawled on a windy summer night.

But, he had nothing.

He didn’t have nothing. Just not the right somethings.

Let’s see—what did he have?

A name —No. A place?—Blank. A purpose? A whisper of freedom, maybe.

What he did know was that, his head hurt, his body ached, he was a boy, and the grass, it smelled wonderful.

All things considered, not a terrible balance sheet. Not ideal, but not the worst.

He may not have felt great, but he did feel safe. He sat up. A mistake, his body let him know. But, it confirmed when his head peeked out of his little hide that he was in a swell of grasslands. The dim starlight didn’t illuminate much, but it was enough to sculpt hills of roiling fields far into the horizon.

The boy lay back and laid his arm across his forehead. A new sensation swelled in him: loneliness.

Yes, he could recall the distinct emptiness of being distant— one hidden from the world, though he longed for more.

A thin stream of a tear ran down the side of his face and into his ear. The cold wet tickled the tiny hairs and the sensation betrayed his sadness.

How strange, the boy thought, that something born of unhappiness can trigger the tiny joy of a tickle. Like a hug given in support, small kindness in the face of bitterness was a human remedy for so many things.

It made him smile, the little happiness. And with that thought, his mind relaxed and he drifted away to sleep.

In that timeless state, the boy dreamed. Of warmth and love and laughter. Hearths and food and small joys the absence of which had brought the tickling tear.

Eons passed before he opened his eyes again. Not blurry now. He could see the crisp sharp infinity of the night sky with precision. His head no longer ached and he felt tired, but rested.

The boy studied the stars for long minutes, enjoying how the night winds made the light bounce and twinkle in the atmosphere. They looked like a blanket of diamonds across the sky.

“Oh, stars,” the boy whispered into the wind “why does life sometimes leave us abandoned when we need companions but other times surrounded when all we wish is to be alone?”

Expecting the answer to be a hush and rustle of grass, he closed his eyes and inhaled to listen and decode what the wind whispered back.

When he heard a low grumbling voice, his eyes shot open.

“Life is ambivalent to your circumstance.” The growl said. “Everyone wants someone to blame, but most things just are.”

The boy looked around a little desperate. He thought he was all alone.

“Wh-who... who's there?” He stuttered, a little frightened.

It took a moment before the voice spoke again. The boy began to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Raise your eyes and you will see me.” The voice directed.

He was confused as he looked up and saw only the sky. Another moment and nothing. He leaned back on his elbow.

“Where?” He asked. “Are you invisible?”

“Many things are seen when one is patient.” The voice hummed.

The boy lay back again and looked at the sky for many minutes before he saw it. The star Aldebaran moved ever so slightly toward him and twinkled a little brighter.

He pointed excitedly. “Is that you?”

“Aaaaahhhh, good, good. You know how to see. To be patient. To wait is not a gift most hold.” The voice now had a mouth. The boy could see the shimmer of something shifting in the sky.

“Give me a moment, I will come to you.” It was warm and kind sounding.

Curious, the boy asked, “Are you a star?”

“Hmmmm—some would say I am a star, others a group. A few have called me a god.” The voice said this thoughtfully, as if seeking a way to explain. “The people I used to watch who lived where you rest tonight called me Tayamni Pa'. But not one has called me that in a long, long time. You, may call me Tayamni, or Tay if you prefer.”

As the boy watched, he could see now a dark mass warping with starlight. As it got closer and larger, he could begin to make out the faint edges of the shape. It looked like a large black—buffalo. Its eyes glowed a pale blue light and the tips of his horns, tail and hooves all twinkled like the stars.

“I am no god, little boy,” now the shape, Tayamni, spoke from a dark mouth. “I am just he-who-waits-and-watches. I observe the universe and man, recording for all time what I see. My friends, the other celestial creatures, that is our task.”

As the great beast descended to the ground, its form solidified and its size, still massive against the boy’s diminutive frame, shrunk to approximately what the boy imagined a buffalo would be. The ground shook ever so slightly as the creature's full weight alighted. Tayamni was no longer some ethereal sky monster, he was real flesh and blood, though its eyes, horns and hooves still had that starlight quality.

“Did you watch me?” The boy asked timidly. “I woke up here and I can't remember anything. Just that I am tired and lonely.”

“Why yes,” Tayamni answered. “That is why I reached out to you. I could feel the ache in your heart and see the panic in your little blue eyes when you peeked above the grasses.”

“Please, Tayamni,” the boy was eager now, leaning forward on his knees before the great buffalo. “Can you share anything? Maybe it will help me remember.”

The giant, settled into a relaxed pose, lying on the ground, forelegs crossed in front of it, like a schoolmaster about to instruct a pupil.

“You have made this journey before.” He began, “Many times. Your fall here is not a punishment or accident, but a result of having outgrown something you share. A connection whose form cannot contain your want and desire. As with any container, when full, it overflows. essentially, your love overflowed the universe and you are washed away as a result. Carried by some etheric tempest.”

The boy looked confused.

“This was no act of aggression, my young friend.” Tayamni assured him. “There is no anger involved. You were released by love. Some lights grow too bright to hold in the palm, so they return to the sky.”

“But—” the boy began “I am not in the sky. Right? I am here, so why didn't I return as you were?”

The old bull leaned his enormous head toward the Boy, cocked it slightly so one eye drew close, it was the size of a saucer. “THAT, is the question you always ask! I cannot say except to presume it is your desire. Your want for this love is so great, you are unwilling to leave it behind and ascend to your place in the heavens. If you look there in the night sky, you can see a tiny blank spot where you belong.”

The astral animal gestured to the northern sky with his sparkling hoof.

“Do I find that which I seek? This great thing I cannot deny?” the boy was calm, seeking clarity.

“Perhaps. You always leave seeking. And I can only assume at some level, you find your goal, but always you fall here, in the cricket grasses. They’re already singing of your return. You’re big news in the lives of little insects.” The boy was sure he saw Tayamni smiling and wink as he said this. They could not speak of the boy's journey, but would always sing what they knew.

“Tonight, you will rest and sleep through tomorrow. Starlight travels best in the dark and dawn grows closer even now.” he said as the eastern horizon bloomed the faintest of magentas against the inky indigo sky.

“The rest of your journey will wait for you. The destination always will. This much, I do know.”

“You know that which I seek?” again the boy piqued.

“No, no, my little star—” the buffalo shook its head. “But I've watched planets orbit stars for millennia and comets who can never quite pull away from the pull at their hearts. When true love is struck, there is no stopping it. You will burn out the universe in timeless pursuit of your goal.”

The boy grew suddenly very sleepy as the sky glowed to a bright yellow and felt a great urge to sleep.

Standing to yawn and stretch before leaning his weight against the coarse fur of the buffalo's head he said, “Oh, my—I am suddenly in desperate need of rest.”

“I know, starlight.” the warmth of the animals voice was very soothing to the little boy, making him sleepier still. “Come, rest in my heart. I will protect you until the daystar grows too weary herself and returns the night to us.

At this invitation, Tayamni's chest glowed pale blue and shimmered to translucence. The boy stumbled next to the bull feeling the course fur with his hand and reaching the glowing heart lay down inside the buffalo. The viscous blue light was like a comforting hug from a mother and in short order, the boy was fast asleep. As soon as he was, Tayamni stood and shook his mane at the rising sun.

“Hello, old girl!” He said as he began to trot eastward. Rumbling into a gallop, the ground shook and the crickets leaped away as the big beast transformed back into his celestial form and glided away into the brightening morning sky. Within moments, it was no longer distinguishable from the rest of the fading night sky.

Day had begun.

The boy woke after a timeless sleep, feeling energetic and alive. The sky was growing dark and the first stars were beginning to emerge.

The low rumble of Tayamni's voice rolled across the grassy plain. “Safe journey, little prince. We will watch your journey and guide you where we can.”

The boy stood erect, face to the sky, an arm extended in a waving salute. “Thank you! Tayamni! Do you think I can find her?”

“I have felt your heart many times, my little light.” The voice carried the feeling of love and pride the bull had for the boy. “It is pure and true. And a true love like yours will always succeed, because you will never stop.”

High above the stars shimmered—kind and watchful, and a tear streaked back across the boy's cheek and tickled his ear, making him smile. So he found the north star, for which he had a strong feeling of kinship, turned right and took his first steps. He was certain of one thing. It was not the first time, but possibly, this would be the last.

And the little audience of insects watched as the boy vanished over the hill. As he drew away they began their song again. Crickets could not speak of his journey—but they remembered. And they sang of it forever.

#story #adventure #legend #journal #confession #100daystooffset #writing

orig: 2025-08-06 23:45:00

Art is not for commodity. It is for passion.

Someone set the sky on fire.
Just now—
in those grey-dark moments
before the day begins,
a match was struck,
a tiny ember glowing.

In minutes it flared
into a red-hot blaze,
burning through
the eastern clouds.

Pastels spread,
then yellow,
orange,
red,
indigo,
violet—
a spectrum spilling wide.

No gavel will ever fall
on this masterpiece.
The artist sketched it in a breath,
then cast it into being,
a gift to his
greater creation.

—

#essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #poetry #

A Pilot’s Journey Through Slow Sand and Flight

In the quiet weight of being stuck, all roads begin to open.

Between waking and sleep, the edges of reality blur—where knives can glow, droids can chatter like old friends, and alligators wear coveralls. Here, the rules bend, and a pilot finds himself stranded not by fate, but by the slow, sticky sands of doubt and longing. Yet in stillness lies escape, and even the deepest trap may open the widest horizons.

I discover tonight that I am a pilot, callsign Lovesick. I wear a bright orange flight suit adorned with assorted tchotchkes and buttons attached to my breast. From that collection of ephemera, a large glowing knife juts out. At first, people stare with concern, asking if I am hurt. I assure them I’m fine. This blade has become part of me—woven into my very fabric, my definition.

My craft, the X-wing, burns hard toward our waypoint. S-foils locked, ready for the attack run. I come in for a landing—at a grocery store!

My companion droid, T5-9D, points out we’re low on bananas and marshmallows. We could also use some lubricants for T5's comfort. The arid sands have created problematic chafing.

Vienna by Ultravox blares from my Walkman, so loud my ears bleed a sticky silver goo—not blood, but something glowing like fairy dust, sweet and thick, like jam. T5 insists it can get louder:

“Whirr-beep, click-click, whistl-bop, beep-beep, whirr!”

I tell T5 it’s plenty loud.

“Bipp, bipp, click-whistle.”

“Well, maybe I am too old,” I quip back.

We swoop low beneath strange clouds that twirl in wild DNA helices across a red sky writhing just above ragged mountaintops.

Deep in a valley, the ship settles beneath the heavy boughs of a massive willow in a bayou. The air hums with humidity and the scent of life. An alligator slips through the shallow water, eyes gleaming yellow.

Waddling onto the mossy shore, it stands erect, well over six feet tall, wearing lavender attendant’s coveralls. ‘Gresham’ is embroidered on a patch over its left breast pocket.

“Would you like a kiss?” it asks, voice seductive, low and wet.

“No, thank you.”

Instead, it offers a hug. The creature’s skin is not as coarse as I expected, but smooth as silk—cool and oddly stimulating, like balm to my weary chest. I weep quietly into its embrace.

“Bet you wish you’d accepted that kiss,” it murmurs coyly while tending the ship’s fuel needs.

“Sugar-free or sap?” she asks.

“I don’t care,” I answer, wiping wetness from my cheeks.

From the trunk of the ancient willow, a long vine snakes down, wrapping gently around the fuselage.

“It’ll be a minute,” Gresham tells me.

I settle on the back of a nearby hippo—Shiela—her broad body rising and falling with slow breaths. I sip warm tea from a cracked porcelain cup. Nearby, a grand piano rests half-submerged in mud, its keys worn but gleaming.

The piano speaks to me in a language foreign and wild, communicating through chords simple but indecipherable. A google bird perches on its ledge, whispering the piano thinks I have kind eyes and wants to play something for me.

“No, I need to go,” I say softly.

The piano’s chords twist into a plea: “You can’t. You’re stuck in the sand.”

I rise and return to the ship. It’s right. The ground has consumed the landing gear. The bottom of the ship is disappearing. The sand creeps higher, swallowing the fuselage inch by inch.

“Slow-sand,” Gresham says, nodding toward the tree. “Most people come down here but don’t stay. They forget the sign.”

I feel the weight of disappointment settle over me, heavy as the humid swamp air.

I ask the powerful Shiela to pull me free.

She strains and snorts, muscles bulging beneath her skin, but the slow sand holds fast. She falters, and I feel the sinking deepen.

Defeated, I step down.

Gresham motions for me to join her.

“Let me take you through the bayou,” she says. “There’s someone you need to meet.”

Opening her enormous mouth, I see the interior has transformed into a lush, red reading chair. I sit, cross legged and we slip into the still.

We glide silently through dark water, willow branches brushing our faces, fireflies flickering like distant stars.

At the heart of the bayou, we claw onto land and climb in a spiral up an ancient, moss-draped bald cypress. On a cluster of branches laid with a clutter of sticks and foliage perches an eagle, its feathers boiling gold in the dappled light.

Gresham nudges me gently forward.

The eagle offers a single golden feather.

“Eat this,” it says, eyes sharp and ancient. “You will find it—liberating.”

I do.

The feather melts on my tongue, warmth spreading from my chest to my fingertips. It tastes of mandarin, plum, and clove—and a hint of jasmine. Spicy and delicious.

Suddenly, I am everywhere and nowhere. I blink and find myself back at the grocery store landing bay, then beneath the willow, then soaring above the bayou on wings I did not have moments ago.

Being stuck in the slow sand had not trapped me—it had opened every possibility.

No longer bound by the rules of physics and reality, I can go anywhere in and out of time.

I am no longer a pilot. I am become THE the pilot. The glowing knife is part of me still, but now I carry wings made of light and choice.

S-foils unlocked.

#dream #writing #xwing #pilot #alligator #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

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