Ripples

I like mirrors. Not because of what they show me but because of what they are.

There was a pond down in the valley behind the house I grew up in. You had to walk through a bunch of locust trees and then you had to wind your way through a pine thicket that was far older than I ever imagined I'd be. Eventually you found yourself at a fence. Mr. Walker owned that fence and the field beyond it. He had quite a few dogs. He had Popper, to be precise. The other dogs were irrelevant to be quite honest.

Popper was a Dalmatian that hated everyone and everything that wasn't him. I'm convinced of this.

If you happened to find yourself lucky, Popper was somewhere on the other south forty. He was few and far between and hopefully well beyond the time it would take you to skirt that fence and run like hell across the alfalfa field. I ran that gauntlet like a Champion more times than I care to count.

Once in the clear, you had to sneak past the turkey coup. No, I have no idea why Mr. Walker had turkeys. They're loud and they alarm themselves so easily. (Yes... intentional)

Regardless, if you were sufficient enough to have overcome such obstacles, you would find yourself at the little stagnant pond that piqued the mere imagination of one little boy who happened to grow up to be your Father.

Now let me tell you about that pond.

It held no beauty other than what it demanded you see in it. It was no bigger than the first trailer I lived in when I first arrived in Georgia... and it was just as ugly, might I add.

But its water was as placid as any I'd ever seen.

Once you'd skirted away the wee bit of pond scum that might float by and once you'd settled yourself over top of that mirror... it gave you exactly what you had come to get. I'm 36 years old and nothing to this day has reflected me better than that little pool of stagnant water on Mr. Walker's property.

I used to drop stones into it, you know. I liked how the ripples would distort my reflection for a bit.

I never really gave a shit where they were washing ashore. The ripples, I mean. I never really cared if they carried a bit of my image or not.

It's funny to think about now. You know, realizing that your own reflection never defined you at all. It was always the ripples. They were what mattered. They ferried you across the pond, as it were. They impacted what you couldn't see. They had no choice.

Yea.

Lost

 
When I first moved to your hometown, I was an alien.

I didn't know where I was, where I was going, or where I might end up. But I did know who I was and what I could do.

It used to piss your Mom off so much, but long before you two were born I would talk her into taking rides with me every Saturday morning. Long rides into wherever we ended up. Journeys.

She always told me I was insane. She was probably right.

We would get in the truck and follow asphalt. It really didn't matter where it led nor where it intended to lead us. We would find roads, lanes, valleys, highways, anything really. We would just drive.

I especially loved it in the Fall. With the windows down and the early morning sun snaking its way across the road, it always felt like goodness. Seeing people living their lives in their front yards. Getting stuck behind an old farmer on his tractor who waved at you when you sped up to pass him on a straight stretch. These were, are still, and will forever be... good things.

I've always done that. I still do. I always will.

I'll tell you a secret that most folks would never admit... sometimes you have to get lost to figure out where in the hell you actually are.

Always go and find where you're going. Never wait for where you're going to come and find where you are.

It helps to be lost, actually. So get there.

Paint

The day I left home, the room I grew up within had walls painted white.

That was due to my having sullied them in my teenage endeavors.

When your old Man was a young Man, he made everyone who came into his room write something, anything, on his wall with permanent marker. The wall meant something. It was 1992... before facebook.

You see, everyone that I ever loved or cared about picked up the stick and wrote what they felt. They wrote what they wanted to say. Unabashed, unaltered, unending. They wrote what they desperately wanted the world to know they had to say.

It was beautiful.

When I left home I had to paint over it. I had to make it presentable again. It took 3 buckets of white paint.

But you know what?

Their words are still there. Buried beneath my whitewash. Hiding beneath the roller and hours and cussing. All of their words are still there. Their sentiments are still strong. Yes, they're buried beneath a couple of coats... but that doesn't render their message obsolete. That doesn't strip them of their intent.

It just means that sometimes you have to dig a little bit to understand what a room is trying to Say.

Life is a Room.

Don't paint over what it's trying to tell you.

Oh... by the way... The greatest quote someone once wrote on that wall was simple, crude, but incredibly to the point.

"You better live life wide ass open. If you don't... you'll end up living life wide ass open."

Paint can't cover up that truth.

In the Autumn of my Eve

I so desperately wanted her to believe that I was a Vagabond worth keeping.

In a sense.

Unencumbered by the quiet patience that only Fall can exude, I burst, bold and brash, upon her stages. Oh, there were so very many to perform upon. Nestled between the shoulders of the smothering summer warmth and the aloof approach of a bitter winter cold, we found our way in the uncertainty that is the In Between.

Wide eyed, wonderful, and young enough to believe forever was a nomenclature for the rest of my moments, I drowned within the ticking drops of a bedside clock. Piercing red numbers, glaring out from a soft, plastic sheath, prying their way beneath my eyelids. How majestic & cruel goodness can be defines me to this very day.

There were quilted skies. So many nights blanketed by them. Quilted.

In the hopeful dreams of youth and the waning recall of age & discretion, there exists a place where all things are completely wrong and yet so very, very right.

I hear a lonely violin that seems so out of place yet so wonderful and moving, pulsing inside my eardrum. I can hear it and yet, I cannot. A singular sound finding its way without a whimper. A raindrop that began a deluge.

In the autumn of my eve, I remain.

At least tonight.