The Songs We Hear

I never stopped hearing her song or feeling like I was supposed to be the one hearing it.

Never tried to ask if it was for me or if she knew what she was doing because it felt a bit like looking behind the curtain to see if the wizard was only human.

Years apart but never completely separated we lived parallel lives and kept going as if none of it mattered.

Until the day we shared a meal and real conversation about who we were, are and wanted to be.

It changed everything.

My gut said relax and go with it while my head said be cautious you are not Charlie Brown trying to kick the ball Lucy is holding.

The Songs We Hear

I often told the universe to release me or bring us closer together.

“I don’t know if I am talking to myself or if this is being heard by someone or something that matters and has influence. But just in case I am and you/it do, here is my request. Set me free or change the equation.”

Some days I feared being set free and some days I wondered what happens when you get what you asked for.

And then came the day and the change.

We picked up where we left off and tried not to smile too quickly for fear that it would give away our true thoughts.

That didn’t last because eventually we pulled back the curtains and shared a little bit.

Ever since then the ship has been sailing pretty smoothly towards unknown shores. This is in spite of having told the navigator which way to go.

I choose not to spend too much time worrying or wondering what it all means. Better to be in the moment and to enjoy the ride.

It is a finer way to live.

Writers Don’t Quit But Bloggers Do

The launch of the mighty sailing ship called The Jack B. was about 7.5 years ago or maybe it is eight or nine, who can remember.

Sure we could go into the archives and locate the date with ease if we wanted to or we could just say we started blogging in 2004 on a different site that was integrated into this one.

If you looked through the joints and removed the duplicate posts you’d probably still have around eight or nine thousand of them.

Based upon unscientific research that means I produced more content than most with a few of those posts falling into the good, very good and excellent categories.

Production levels were steady for the first decade or so and then courtesy of work and life responsibilities they slowed down to the current place of semi-hibernation.

Why is it important to mention?

Because writers don’t quit writing, but bloggers do.

I am a writer who is a blogger, not a blogger who just happens to write.

Stay Drunk

I have been drunk on writing for so long now I can no longer remember what it means to be sober.

There is no time I can remember where writing wasn’t on my mind or a part of me in some way.

Although there were and are times in which it was lower on the list of priorities it always occupied a spot on the list.

I am not sure I recognized its import when I was younger, but for certain I have and I do.

The hardest challenge for me now is to write with the complete freedom I wish to under my own name.

I come closer all the time, but have been holding back just a little, not always, but enough.

That will change.

The Idiot’s Mark

Sometimes people post something they believe is funny or makes them look cool and you shake your head because they are so far off of the mark.

The dumbass that posted this is the poster child for planned parenthood and general buffoonery.

I wonder if he has figured out yet how many recognize him for who he is and who he isn’t.

Kind Of A Test Post…Sort Of

The ape ought to jump off the page and slap some sense into me.

He ought to tell me to give up, move on and walk away from some things but he won’t and it probably wouldn’t matter.

I am going to do what I am going to do until my gut says I don’t what had to be done.

It is not just because the heart wants what the heart wants either but because I hear music and I am following it.

In the interim I have undergone one hell of a battle to recover and restore this place. Came within a heartbeat of losing every damn thing here.

Given the lackluster efforts to keep the doors open and the blog breathing you might wonder if I care.

The answer is I do and I suspect a few others do too.

So if you stick around I expect you’ll see some movement here…soon.

The Hand On The Back Of Your Head

He told me the thing he remembered the most wasn’t the silver bracelets that kept his arms behind his back or the smell of a car interior in desperate need of an odor neutralizer.

Nor was it the chatter of the radio or cackling of the people who saw him get his silver bracelets.

It was a hand.

“The hand on the back of your head stays with you. That rough push down that they do to keep you from banging it on the door frame is the clearest sign that you are not seen as a human.

It is a rough shove like they would give livestock they are guiding into the barn, which I guess is kind what happens.

Because they lead you to a barn or maybe a pen is a better word and lock you in.”