Under the sunset canopy, his voice strains under unknown saddness, yearning for the lost glimmer of hope.
Over the roar of the Pacific, he calls; his song of the day's remorse becoming tonight's memory. The fleeting record of loss.
Through the blanket of dusk, his sorrow captures us.
In his truths, we relate and as darkness resumes its noble place, we open to our own pasts, refreshed in new solitude, awoken with honest chords and stolen words. We hear our cries in his cries, in the approaching surf, in the growing night silence.
Together, alone, we seek ourselves.

If I close off the world, maybe the answers will come. If I surround myself with absence, surround my thoughts with the comfort of a child's ignorance, the joy might return.
Instead, I shake in fear of the life I live. The choices that threaten happiness, the jokes that Hobbes must surely enjoy now filling my hours.
I yearn for the promises of teenage nights, when I would cower beside my bed and swear that my life would be better, between the silent cries for help, I swore my life would mean something. It was an oath that possesses me, that leads me, and shielded me from the discomfort of service. But I didn't know the pain would weaken the bonds, leaving me here today - remorseful for the decade of opportunity lost to a noble dedication.
And this promise 14 years remembered remains powerful. I'm scared to break the pledge and disrespect the memory of that boy. So instead I continue, unquestioned.
May the truths reveal themselves. May the nothingness be the answer.

Random Thoughts

Happy Birthday Strom! (I don't care what everybody else may think about this man, he jumped with the 82nd on D-day when he was 44 years old, and that's all one needs to say)

Its a snow day!!!!!!!!!!!!! No, not a true Minnesota quality snow day, but it will do for the East Coast.

I wish that people thought more like themselves, for themselves and beyond themselves, and didn't not think like usually happens.

If I could rise above it all and see the world for what it was, would I.
would I forgo the daily mystery, the hourly search for why and where and when and who,
no, I'm happy just walking my wandering way,
suprised by the bends and content with its happiness.
(Well, maybe I'd take a quick peek)

Birth of a Painting-

Over an off-blue background appears the strokes of competing darkness,
undisciplined, unruly, playing with yellow khaki - evolve into greens into swirls. More anxious efforts parallel the borders in unrecognizable fear.
Now, the movement overtaken by dark blue hues hiding uncertain intentions. Suddenly, two eyes appear from the anarchic mist searching downward towards unseen feet - averting their embarrassed gaze. More blues coaxed from the visionary pallet. Then the repressed arch of a nose, the nose of humbleness and shyness and never-tested strength. From cautious reds reveal two lips dripping the first syllables of ... of an apology? And all is encased by darker. unkemp hair, not there but implied by the shadows from an off frame light. Then, saddness betrayed in the dreary afternoon tints and unforgiving strokes, all stealing the secret of regrets from unwitting passing audiences, inexplicably drawn in by blue remorse.

Its soul is born.

I feel small tonight. No, not in a physical sense, nor in any measure of mental capacity, but in the measure of myself as a man. This Saturday, I fly back to Minnesota to begin my Thanksgiving vacation. I will be spending some time with my parents, and seeing some old friends unknown since high school graduation. I may, just may, even take some time to make some new relations if me and the unsuspecting future friend happen by the same place on time. There will be fireplaces, sans chestnuts, gently glowing, bouncing their warmth around the downstairs den. Hopefully the snow will hide the off-brown din of late fall grass and neglected leaves. I will be warm, never hungry and in the comfort of my family.

I will leave unfulfilled - and small.

My best friend will be spending four hours of Thanksgiving day in a shelter for abused mothers and children. He will most likely spend most of it serving food to others, and the rest cleaning up after nearly 8 hours of cooking. There will probably be a lot of hard work and there will definitely be a lifetime of new, uncomfortable smiles disguising soft "Thank-yous."

I doubt he will regret a second of it.

When we meet up on Saturday after Thanksgiving to tell stories, I will share a couple humorous incidents from the Minnesota homecoming and then I'll listen to him and learn and remember and respect the sacrifice that too few make.

"Would you like to live in Alaska?" she inquired - uninspiredly.
The dimmed lights, interupted by a squad of flickering candles, decorated her face in warm grays. The pulses of transplanted folk music seasoned her thoughts, but neither explained the question. No matter; my response was unaltered.
"Could I still play pinball" I begged with sudden urgent importance.
Her response was swift "No!" delivered mid motion as she rose from couch to retrieve her tea.
"Would you be there?"
'You don't even know me". The rebuke bounced off me, only traces of the insult remained on the already battered ego.
"Yes" I finally settled within myself.
"Good" she judged, now standing behind me, cupping the luke warm green tea.
"Then go"
I turned in only semi-feigned interest to see her returning to her original cushion and friends.
Quickly surveying her escape, I was drawn by her aloofness, broken only by a subtle wink. So I stood, and grabbing her coat left beside me, prepared to follow her dream.

The walk home is short
past the shops
left at the Lounge
downhill, under arched trees.
At dusk, shadows trace these footsteps along familiar paths
the same dog whimpers
the same cat scampers
the same squirrel scurries
(in anticipation of someone else.)

At the corner of the bottom of the hill,
I pause
and ponder the daily steps
the friendships of this street
Lights blink, or wink, and I turn
towards home
never alone.

Unrecognized steps trace the paths of unmet friends
Our destinies separated by minutes
or hours,
or uncomfortable wayward glances
The companionship I seek
again successfully avoided.