Gather ’round, my darling misfits of memory.
Let us drink like we are old–and wise. Let us feel like we are still young–and pliable. The caress of youth is fleeting–we should enjoy it while still able to absorb sensation before it all turns black.
And in that space, let the fabric of fresh experience unravel to reveal a new tapestry. The one of our destiny. And not our unpredictable definitions. Because those often change. And can’t be trusted.
Everything shifts as it ages.
But, I still remember the smell of my Mother’s apron when I hugged her that warm Indiana afternoon.
And, I still sometimes smart from the sting from when those strings snapped unexpectedly.
Scars are receipts of occurrence; tears are the currency of existence. Somewhere between the two, we live.
Doing our best. Grinding it out. Drinking it up. Pushing through to the promise of that next great thing; craving the intimate blush of attention.
Every life is a stage. But, some shows are more popular–and successful–than others. Others, they flop and fail in spectacular fashion. And some end too fucking soon.
But, we bought the ticket. So we have to take the ride. Accept the hits. And do our best to not get caught up in the stalls. Because stagnation kills quicker than other cancers–better to avoid it if at all possible.
Even if that means forcing yourself to the embrace the ridiculous. Because it is okay if people laugh at you. You just laugh right the fuck back. Laughter is the backing track to a script flipping. And is almost always worth the investment.
Strange thoughts on a moonless Clinton County night.
The kind of night that just hangs around, lingering like that annoying friend who never learned to recognize the party’s end. The kind of night that reminds you of something–but you can never figure out exactly what. Triggering repressed memories buried so deep you never thought that you would ever see them again. But one whisper of a Michigan meadow and there they all are again.
It helps knowing that the foxes are out here, too. Romping and exploring the familiar expanse of their territory.
I miss seeing their tracks in the snow.
I want to smell that apron again; I ache for the yellow curtains of childhood.
That simple little boy of summer grew into a complicated old man standing in his fifth decade of winters.
And he wonders if he’ll ever feel the kiss of the sun…
