A life as simple as the pictures that I stared
into as a child,
those clean cut watercolors and pristine woodcuts-
two dimensions of crystal trees and monsters
and shimmering castles-
two dimensions of lofty adventures-
glinting swords, and scaly dragons, and lovely
damsels,
and the muster of heroism that always won
each and every day-
there stood the proud hero, sword held on high-
there stood the conquering explorer,
standing tall beside his flag, fluttering happily
in the thin air swirling about the crest of some
towering peak-
the pictures opened up my young mind like
a heavy blossom-
they showed me a brilliance of color and a palette
of expectation-
I willingly lost myself in those forests,
never hoping to be found-
I purposefully immersed myself in those glistening
seas,
blissfully lost to the world-
life was 1 + 1,
and now it’s an algorithm-
I never was good at math-
counting the days was challenge enough*

I guess it all started at Miller’s, the gas station on the other side of town; these kids came in all hurried and frantic, knocking shit over and screaming, and one of them was bleeding, and they went nuts when the guy behind the counter didn’t dial 911 fast enough.  They tore up the place, went to the Beak, tore that joint up too and sent the regulars at the bar running, and somewhere or the other, the power got knocked out to the whole town.  That’s all she knew at that point.  She didn’t know if it was the gang of kids, or from the damned storm.  Either way, it was as dark as a mine shaft out there, and the town just kind of locked itself shut since nobody wanted to deal with all the racket.  I don’t blame them one bit.  I sure as shit wouldn’t want to tangle with a platoon of loaded coke heads.

Fuckers like that are so doped up that they don’t feel a thing.  Punches and blows just bounce right off of them like nobody’s business.  And you can’t reason with them.  But that explained the lack of cops; I’m sure those cowboys had their hands full wrangling up all those rowdies.  That made perfect sense.  She went on about what her cousin had told her, and her cousin said that we should either head over to where she was staying with her family, or just up and head out of town and keep on moving.  Either way, she wasn’t budging.  And she said whatever we do, we should be quick about it.  Sally said that her cousin emphasized the quick part.  The cousin said she’d been hearing random gunshots up and down the town since nightfall, and everybody and their grandmothers were bottled up inside, holed up and waiting for the official word.  Sally and I started to brainstorm our options, trying to stir up a proper game plan.  Sandy Creek was the next town over, and we sure as shit weren’t driving 50 miles that way, not in that weather.  And we really didn’t want to head back toward Harvey’s in the storm, so we figured we’d rough it out there in town for the night; we just hadn’t figured out the where just yet.

Don’t be concerned with having power over others; the greatest challenge, and the most rewarding strength, is power over yourself.

Period films are often challenging ordeals.  Many factors come into play when transferring a fact based story to the big screen, from costumes, to historical accuracy, to the ever-present “will anyone pay to watch this” dilemma.  The American Civil War stands among the pivotal moments in our nation’s history, so it stands as no surprise that there have been a plethora of flicks based on that time period made over the years, from the infamous Birth of a Nation in 1915, the legendary Gone with the Wind, and 2003’s Gods and Generals.  It was 1989 when a powerful gem named Glory was released into theaters, chronicling the formation of the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, an all black regiment mustered in 1863.  Directed by Edward Zwick, the movie featured some serious star power in Denzel Washington, Matthew Broderick, Morgan Freeman, Andre Braugher, Cary Elwes, and a host of recognizable faces.  Incorporating a triumphant score by James Horner, the film succeeds in painting a multi-layered picture of the trials and hurdles that had to be overcome by black and white troops in the Union Army following the Emancipation Proclamation passed into law by President Lincoln.  The film carefully creates a vivid portrait of the main characters, with the simmering tensions of the war serving as a commanding backdrop.  I remember getting misty-eyed in the theaters when I saw this film as a kid, and the message that it conveys holds true today.  Definitely worth a watch.

Her laugh echoed into the lush
gray of the morning,
reflecting back to me off of the
milky haze of the fog-
she’d had a dream, and so did I,
though hers occurred at sleep-
we were there,
among the clouds of the moment,
arm in arm, swirling within nature’s
breath, as her own warm breath
caressed my lips,
and my heart pounded against her chest-
the fog was the perfect backdrop,
sealing us in within its dense embrace,
as if we were stars on a stage-
that was the last time-
I couldn’t have asked for a better painting*

The sky’s gradients gave
me pause-
I stood mesmerized at the distant sunlight
giving way to the night,
a careful blend of different times-
the gold of late afternoon
being enveloped by the blue green of early
evening,
both surrendering to the deep ocean blue
of night,
the palette flecked with a smattering of pale,
independent stars-
it gave me pause, as it does every night-
all of life seems to drift from afternoon,
to evening,
to night,
in the form of birth, life, and death,
start, race, finish,
beginning, middle, and end-
it all ends up in that deep pool,
flecked with bits of enigma
and independent stars
sprinkled about like memories,
experiences,
goals, and random desires-
our own private canvas,
each meaning tailor made to the viewer-
I read my life in those threads of blues, and
greens, and golds,
night and day,
as independent and mysterious as the stars
above, bright and scattered, and ever present*

Just because you can’t see the stars,
doesn’t mean they aren’t there-
the moon concedes the sky to the sun
for a time,
but it will return again-
just because you can’t feel the breeze,
doesn’t mean it isn’t blowing-
step outside and close your eyes
and remind yourself that it is real-
it’s easy to forget that birds still sing,
that crickets chirp,
or that squirrels scurry loudly-
it’s easy to forget how warm the sun is
when you only see it from beyond a window-
it’s easy to forget how bright it is,
when it’s replaced by fluorescent bulbs
for the bulk of a day-
computer clicks cannot replace cricket chirps,
and the ringing of a desk phone can never
replace the proud call of a bird-
send yourself packing-
step outside and remember*

Take me again to that gentle sky,
night air ripe with laughter that burst
like an autumn pear-
those threads of color, separated by tufts of
past and present,
aloft and distant and close enough to touch-
lead me to that scent,
that thick aroma, sweet with daydream
and sticky with promise-
there was promise once,
a belief as solid as medieval walls,
high and brave, standing tall
under a fluttering banner beating as loudly
as a happy heart-
hidden wings soar behind my eyes
and carry me to that gentle sky,
aloft and distant and close enough to touch,
the aroma, thick with daydream,
and fertile with promise-
lead me to that scent,
the beat of the happy heart resounding
off of the castle walls like a solemn drum-
lead me to that autumn pear,
so that I can taste its laughter,
sweet and sodden with daydream*

Suite Bergamasque III. Clair de Lune – Pascal Roge

Drawing – Guy Farley

String Quartet No. 13 in B-flat Major, Op. 130, Cavatina – Beethoven

McCoy Tyner Trio – Reaching Fourth

McCoy Tyner Trio – Goodbye

Before I Met You – Jule Garrish

It crashed through one wall after the next,
until it passed completely through,
leaving a canvas much like Jackson Pollock
would have done-
this day, just as good as the next,
this day, identical to the next-
this day, the progeny of those things done yesterday,
seared into the folds of our silent movement-
those long winded conversations
spoken through skeletal ears,
the only ears that would listen-
they echoed back to me,
filtered through the crevasses and cracks
and swirling dust-
what did they ever really mean,
i ask myself to this day-
an empty directory written in disappearing
ink,
a roll call stacked with forgotten names,
crashing through one wall after the next
until they pass completely through-
hitting nothing and bursting everything
along its rigid path,
those walls, long since vacant,
like some old ruin,
crumbling under the cumbersome weight
of themselves-
emptied of their commerce,
and enveloped by the weaving vines
of age and history-
how long before they are found?*