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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Broken Lace and Fraying Angels

- by Grey Fox

There is inside of me a growing, insatiably relentless simmering, ceaselessly stoked by the taunting heat of unexpected peculiarity boiling and steaming just under the fiery implications of my better intentions. Smoke rises high and hot from the mountains down Tennessee way, clinging to the hills so stoic in their perceived immobility as bare passions rekindle under the threatening storm’s electric, sparking touch. The jagged peaks of less gentle mountains beckon from the rockier west, out in the Centennial state which holds the unique typographical distinction of being where my heart so cleanly divides down Interstate 70’s winding slopes. But then the rhythmic lullaby of a warm gulf’s waves cresting against clean, uncomplicated sands echoes hard enough to be heard over new music played to fight …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Winter Stomp

- by Grey Fox

There is often a sizable vacuum left behind in the absence of a steady influx of fresh ridiculousness rolling into my life to help fill the gaps of pandemically inspired boredom and I have discovered that some semblance of a temporary balance might be found within the gushing inrush of unexpected nostalgia, surging up from a hesitant place to help fill that incessant hunger to feel something.  And when the familiar and intimate transcontinental texting lifelines last night understandably petered out in the crushing end-grip of another day of exhausted adulting, I was left on my own to find a way of filling another isolated night’s empty hours. And we all know that never ends particularly well for me, here alone and unsupervised, caught in the …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Leather and Lace

- by Grey Fox

From deep within the confusion of a misunderstood isolation sprang an unexpected oasis of clarity, a glimmer of a future forged in the furnace of a friendship born in the before time.  The time before this suffocating quarantine blanketed a budding reconnection.  The time before a sea of masquerading strangers somehow became the responsible norm, parading by in socially distanced regularity to redefine the paradigm of this novel inconvenience. She asked unexpectedly; I answered without reservation.  In the briefest blink of an overdue text finally sent, the hope of possibility landed hard in the midst of another strange week, here in this unpredictably disordered City of Wayne. It was a week full of unexpectedly cascading change.  It was a thirty hour window filled with flirting and …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Choices

- by Grey Fox

It is always just a matter of choice. After the implications, and the complications, and the accountability are all stripped ruthlessly away, there remains at the most fundamentally intimate core a lasting, indelible imprint of an initial decision.  Sometimes, choice is born in the sweltering cauldron of a random moment pulled unexpectedly into focus, hitting unpredictably hot and hard on a blindsided turn of fate’s fickle timing.  Or maybe it comes at you in painfully deliberate increments, creeping in slow and invasively targeted with determined precision. Either way, it will inevitably find you.   It does little good hiding inside a bottle- that soothing numbness is at best just a temporary stall.  The solutions that splash and pour into a dirty glass are just cleverly distilled liquid …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Insomnia

- by Grey Fox

There is a certain stagnation that results from living with the constant burden of unpredictability, caught inexplicably immobile as the first hesitant sparks of an upcoming war that threatens to be anything but civil rain down upon the desiccated tinder of everyone’s day to day good intentions, just waiting for the right mistake to catch and take hold. An accompanying exhaustion, crippling and numb, often robs the restful sleep so desperately needed and replaces it instead with the regret-filled void of decade’s old sin.  It is a wickedly infectious insomnia, red and raw, twirling around a ticking clock whose only remaining function is to lie convincingly about the time. And all I can do is simply lay there in silent subjugation, night after sweat-soaked night, watching …

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