The Loving You

May 5th, 2019, sometime in the early morning, there was a need to write this. Today, eight months later, there is a need to share it … not knowing the purpose of this moment. You, however, do have a glimpse into your reasons for this “now”. Be open to possibilities of the unexpected in your life when you fall for you … and find a way.

Keyed Up

Almost .08 cents a piece is about my limit. Didn’t realize this was my maximum price per cheap, China-made key holder rings until today. Had they not been color coded, my ceiling would have been far less AND, if the previous little impish bag of key holders I bought two weeks ago wasn’t missing, there’d be no need for this .94 cents purchase at all.

See, I lost ten of the twelve. Eighty-three percent of a previous bag of key holders are, still, playing with my mind. Two are in use, happily, but there’s no appeasing a distraught, mildly tense man who has since made repurchase ring reparations … and I’m just getting started.

Today is one of those weird days in January, so to assume the normal is, well, wrong. Snow should be blowing along with the crackling of salt and ice under the tires of slow moving cars. Instead, there are near 50-degree dry roads with an old, white pick-up truck in front of me, a few minutes ago, wanting to make a left turn while the red left turn arrow clearly was begging him not to … as was all the oncoming traffic. No harm done, fortunately.

Earlier, a regrettable error in shipping, and a few emails back and forth “over the pond”, did add some levity to my morning. I’ve fashioned a rather nice business relationship with a couple and feel quite jammy over it. Their business has been so kind to me. Wanting to show my appreciation, I thought sending them some small things to demonstrate same would be a good gesture. Yesterday, I carefully packaged up two items and was quite chuffed about it .. until this morning when I realized only one of the two actually made it into the box – which was, yes, on the first leg of a week long package vacation. You may think, “Codswallop, there Bloke”. To which I reply in Australian for no reason, “No, Mate. There’s more…”.

Hoping to send said second package this morning to the U.K., I quickly realized, prior to sending it out, today wasn’t going to be normal. The second “gift” couldn’t be sent. Details can’t be disclosed. Suffice to say, I had a hunch that turned out to be correct. Thus the following email to my ever so patient friend and business correspondent:

“…aaaand, of course THAT plan backfired after I realized one unalterable fact existing between the US and UK. I had to, once again, be quick on my feet. Not what I originally wanted, but hey, you’ll get a chuckle and enjoy the merriment of the moment upon opening envelope #2″

Her reply, as a follower of my blog:

“I can see a new blog post coming on…”

Well done, my friend. You are a prognosticator of the highest order!

Three. I ate a Big Mac for breakfast. Ugh. Why?

All of this … getting me to my key ring problem about which I’m still miffed. Not the price. .94 cents…uhm, I can live with that – top of my range, but ok. The color assortment problematic with the tan in there, however the dark blue makes up for it. Looooove dark blue. Where are the other 10? Yes, THAT’s still a looming cloud over my day.

Here’s the problem: checking out at the register. Not normal, anymore. With my expensive little bag of foreign plastic key nuggets in hand, all I wanted to do is hand her $1 US and get back .06 cents. It was already a long day. I’d lost ten of the little darlings to fate, digested more than my daily allowance of sodium, and couldn’t send a simple trinket of thanks to the U.K.. Please, with all that is good in this blessed world, help me….

The clerk, after clearing up a break room food discussion with another clerk two registers across, did finally attend to my large order. Scan. “Bing” … and then it happened.

“Your phone number, please?”

“What, why?”

“I have to put a number in our system.”

“Why? I’m only buying $1 worth ? You need my phone number for that?”

“Yes.”

“How about I let you keep the change (knowing it’ll be less than $1 .. been here done it) … and I don’t give you my number?”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Ok. Can I have your number?”

“Why?”

“I just asked you that”

“Huh?”

“Sure, I’ll give you my (fake) number … it’s …”

Where’s the privacy anymore? Not to mention receipt sizes equal to the size of the order? I could line up all my new key rings end to end and STILL be shorter than the receipt purged out from the dingy spitter. What’s with the question ..? I’m sure they want to know what dudes (ettes) walk through the store. Gettin’ the vibe there. What’s wrong with: “Hey, where Y’all from?”, or have a freakin’ key on the register labeled, “Person refuses to answer the stupid-a&& phone number question”, because he’s paying cash, not buying a Porsche, isn’t in line to be King of England, has no intention of replacing you as “Cashier of the year”, and can’t even keep track of twelve little pieces of imported plastic from two weeks ago.

This was not a normal day. I sure hope it was for you. Let me know if you need a key ring. Sure as tomorrow is the day after today, I’ll find the lost buggers. Blimey.

The Potter

“So now what?”, said Clay to the potter. A fair question. After all, Clay didn’t ask to be thrown on the potter’s wheel. Minding his own since the creation of time, the situation, now, is quite different.

Clay was only recently unearthed and his question was warranted. Very justified, to be sure. He was taken from his millennial friends whom he met as they passed by in the cold stream nearby. A place called home where small shiny fish swam in the riffle pockets swirling around glossy green pebbles. Familiar and predictable. Nature’s pathway to eternal growth, for Clay, seemed no more.

Finding his way back would be futile. There really was no return. The potter determined Clay’s fate with the first thrust of a generational, rusty shovel. Into the bucket he fell .. and unknown future.

The future needed to survive came from his tears – which were beginning to run dry after hours inside this pale yellow tin prison. Cracks never known before began to appear on his face as an original deep, rich hue changed to a pale, inanimate tan. As each moment passed, life affirming oxygen swirled still … stale, dormant inside. Darkness cut off the sunlight. With each sway – as he was carried away from his familiar – came less hope of ever being his familiar self again. Despair. Alone in a circular world of alien metal and foreign feelings.

A short distance away was the potter’s home. Extending from the porch a worn path of stones placed years ago by a loving great-grandfather. For this house was generationally bound to the present with each and every new step taken by his heirs. The dirty prints atop each stone remained as gifts paid forward to the next one blessed to have walked in his footsteps.

At the far end of the simple ranch house, a small wooden, simply-framed building stood in contrast to the house itself. Unconnected, it stood with four walls reaching up to form a slightly leaning roof front-to-back and also inside-to-upside. From age, not design, the roof leaned in a peculiar way. In one corner, rain water collected. Surely not the original intent … for there was no apparent way for the water to drain. Repairs seemed necessary, but not a priority. Whatever the cause, intent, or resolution, from inside a rusty old bucket, none of this mattered.

There was no revelation for Clay. No way of knowing. Cut off from what he knew, currently in a dark scary space, unaware of the future he could not see … fate dealt a massive blow.

Then the swaying stopped.

Silence.

What was to be? An end finally here? Motionless alarm.

At last in the distance a trickle. At first he wasn’t sure, but as it continued, he knew the sound. Suddenly, it was music so familiar a joy .. and then an immediate hope infused with water saturated his soul. The moment became momentarily possible as the still rusty bucket started to fill around him with precious familiar water. Life could continue with a renewed, but hesitant outlook.

Clay began to consider his recent nemesis a friend. Cracks healing, color returning, the bucket not naturally familiar, however, there was life ahead so everything was ok for now. And with that, he sat. Waiting. Pondering what to say. By this time, the potter retired for the evening back into his house, turning the single light off in this tilted, damp extra building where a bucket sat to collect rainwater leaking from the roof.

The traditional, predictable question, “why?” didn’t fit. Any answer to that wasn’t going to change Clay’s current state. He knew where he came from and where he was at present.. The future was unclear…until.

The potter’s warm hands reached in to embrace Clay the following morning as the sun dried the dew off the stones in the pathway. He gently placed Clay on the spinning wheel sitting in the dry corner opposite where the rain bucket sat almost full from the evening storm. With a trust formerly unfamiliar to him -especially never speaking to the potter – Clay, with humility and grace, spoke, “So now what? I am scared. I am alone. Please, please. What is your purpose with me?”

From the potter came a most unexpected reply,

“I have searched for perfection. Meticulously scanning the earth for years, I did not find it until yesterday. This craft of pottery was entrusted to me from my forefathers. The honor of continuing at their behest requires perfection – not in the final form, but in the basic, foundation materials. Such material has to be pure, aged, wise, loving, nurturing – all of the qualities I am blessed to finally find in you. You are perfection from the start. I am truly honored to work with you”

Silence. Then tears. Then friendship. Then love. That day a potter began a masterpiece never to be shown in a gallery.

Clay now sits on the potter’s book stand next to a rocking chair – the same wicker chair passed down from a great-grandfather. The same chair with worn side rails from a grateful great grandson’s arms resting on them every night.

The most beautiful of vases sits quietly, and majestically, next to a worn, aged, man who years ago carried a long since rusted out bucket back from a stream. The stream has since dried out. The fish are gone. The pebbles are still sitting there in the dust.

As Clay sits quietly, his friends are gone. Forever.

He is alive and more beautiful than ever thanks to his wonderful friend, the potter, who sleeps silently next to him with a partially open book over his chest. Silently he rests to arise tomorrow, possibly walking out the front door to make new footprints on the stone pathway into the future…

Colors

When life is over, it is finished. All the hoping and stressing ceases to be. Time remains constant, however, for those we loved left behind. They remain to despair or rejoice over our absence.
Before life was for us, all desires and tensions belonged to those alive. They were joyous in their blessed accounts or despondent among gatherings of friends.
In between is us – our lifetimes. These are overlapping spans of years blended on the corners of an artist’s imagination by passing experiences. All the real dreams and disappointments mixed so tightly together we cannot escape the gallery of each other’s pains and pleasures. Surprisingly beautiful are the dreadful times. Wonderfully elegant the magnificent moments.
In the trio of time – past, present, and future, – never forgotten are the colors of love. This is time best represented.
Since time is all you have, love yourself as no one can. For this is a palette of colors representing self-compassion in your failures, tolerance of choices, and faith forward in dreams.
Take the empty canvas leaning on self-acceptance and begin to create a masterpiece that is your life on this day. Some walking by will casually glance at your paint soaked hands and move on not understanding what they see. Those who do stop to consider your story and wonder about what inspires you are part of your world. They are there. Truly seeing the colors. One with you at that moment. Give them an experience. Hand them a brush, perhaps, and let them mix in a few colors with you so they may be a now and a hope with you.
That small time with you is their time as well. It is their present for you.
Love is the meaning in this time together… in all time, too. Passing through today is more for others, not us. When today is finished, all the wishing and worrying ceases to be. Time remains constant when our brushes are cleaned for another day. Time, ever so steadfast, urges forward for those we colored. They will despair or rejoice over our absence.
Have it be they rejoice, not despair. Love the colors. Love the painting they painted on their hearts while in your presence. In them, then, you’ll see the love you have for yourself … something that is timeless. Just like love itself.

1 DAY 8 HOURS

To be more precise, two-thousand one-hundred forty-two miles is the distance from here to there. Day and hours is only a driving estimate because I could board a plane and be there in about two – maybe three – hours. Shorter yet, I can, and usually do, nervously tap a few clicks on my antiquated Dell keyboard and be connected right quick on Facebook. Whatever means to the end, I could guarantee – experiencing only the latter of the three – an ensuing conversation with my friend, Daniella*, would always be in the queue of my little lightening bubble.

Of course, I can’t reveal the exact location or name of said she-person … that would be unethical until such time permission is granted to edit this post. I also know she reads my blog entries and I could be in a world of jujitsu hurt if I ever DID show up in person at her house, so …

Some really boring back-story details: On January 27th, 2017, we had a re-connection when I sent her a picture (on FB) of a guitar I purchased and she replied back, “That is gorgeous”. This was more of a comment & message to an earlier post I generated on my personal page. PS Thanks for yawning your way through that!!

… Over thirty years since high school. Way before Facebook. A time when Daniella and I had our faces in real books as classmates in high school. Can’t say we knew each other well enough to hang out in the local mall together and share walk-man headphones listening to Run D.M.C., The Police, or Billy Joel. Could have been, though, because we were music minors loving the sounds of life.

Memory has a goofy way of checking out the roses while the thorns poke you in the butt. That said, I am not going to spend much time in the reminiscence garden for that very reason. What I know – with absolute certainty – is everything from January 27th, 2017 forward IS known. The lightening bolt sphere I always referred to, casually, as my personal “bubble of knowledge” had been thunderously awakened. Accepting most information at face value in general comments, the depth of understanding I missed through this acceptance was Mariana Trench huge. To Yoda-size, “Leap of faith I made”…

To my credit or fault, I sent Daniella a PM in September of that year:

“Had my mind altered a bit after watching Trevor Noah….Something I am guilty of and didn’t know it. Every time there’s a protest – especially by minorities – my response is to say, “you can protest, but just in another way (ie NFL kneel)”. Trevor made a fantastic point…and it made me think. If that line of thinking holds, just WHEN and WHERE can a protest be made? If that’s the excuse I’ve used every time, as Trevor said, apparently I don’t believe they can protest. He pointed out 5 instances in the past when someone like me used the “you can, but not here” excuse. Seems like I gots some more of that learnin’ to do….

I made a promise not to write any specific words from Daniella out of respect for her privacy. It is from my value system I have veiled trust. Her response began a dialogue we’ve continued to this day. It would be a wonderful exercise in humanity (and an absolute violation in trust *see jujitsu comment above*) to copy and paste our entire PMs here. I’d love for you, my readers, to see the transformative power of open and honest words between friends.

To say, “Daniella and I touched the tip of the political spear” … would be to say “Star Wars was a two-bit, no good, overacted, piece of cinematic clammy Wookiee poop.” We plunged that spear into the belly of the beast many times over, slaying a never dead subject as it’s head continually rose with every headline and tweet.

She, the passionate, eerr…. uhm, ardent, intense, most likely left side of the aisle believer in all things that way. I, the independent, but right leaning sort-of persuadable, open minded, passionate believer in all things that way.

Not everything is, or was, politics. Bell curve it … and, yes politics would be the meat. We’ve been back and forth about faith now and then as well. Lighter stuff, mostly, save the occasional WTF was that! She’s a fan of this blog which gives my fingers tingles and I am keenly aware of her appreciation for my “minor” influences prevalent among pianist endeavors on my recent CD.

The ups and downs of a bell curve, however, are minimal compared to the successes and failures in life we live. It was so hard to see thirty years into the future living out of acid-wash denims, Members Only jackets, and bright neon shirts. Big calculators didn’t have capacity for spheres of knowledge. Quite honestly, it was a good thing because two teenagers didn’t have the maturity for it either.

The purpose today isn’t to laud and honor Daniella’s political position … of which I am sure some may disagree. I have come to highly respect, through listening and research, her point of view because that’s what evolving adults do. She has helped me understand “the other side”. I am taking her cart of knowledge into my garden, planting some of her seeds, and seeing what grows.

Our last GIF a few days ago quotes Dr. Evil, “Come Join Us”. The context between Daniella and I doesn’t really matter much. If you join us in the community of understanding each other through listening and reaching out, we can begin to solve some smaller problems together. As I wrote above, “seems like I gots some more of that learnin’ to do….“, Daniella, I believe, knows that.

The climate here is much different over two-thousand miles away so I don’t know what my garden will bear. It takes time for these things to grow … maybe another thirty years, perhaps? … and that’s perfectly fine.

PRECIOUS

"Precious"
Two seemingly trifling syllables, yet unlimited reach
Gemstones, babies, puppies, lovers ...

Oh, so much in eight letters.

The moments that turn over lives
Caring, crying, caressing, consoling
Time ending and fresh beginnings

Oh, so much in eight letters.

Second chances taken when sadness unveiled
Depression at bay with respiratory ease.
Touching the tears of a friend gasping for breath

Oh, so much in eight letters.

"Precious", above all this, is your life.
You are unlimited reach.
You are two syllables of wild imagination.
You are "Oh, so much more than eight letters".

Satisfaction

Feel like writing about music today. Maybe it’s the ROLLING STONES fault. Drove into my neighborhood a few moments ago while “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” played at a subtle, but understandable, volume inside my salty gray, tired Honda. (As an aside here, I should consider a mid-winter wash of the exterior just to ease the expected rust expansion come spring). Inside I sat listening, feeling satisfied about some things: the year is off to a new start, nobody won the Powerball the other night – so I have a chance again Saturday, and I learned how to do a load of “delicates” last night. In these things, I can be pleased.

To be clear, I am – at the same time – content in other details of my life … and, of course, dissatisfied with some. Trying to balance out all the bads and goods is so hard.

A small part of my dirty laundry was managed last night, so, I won’t hang a shirt-load of it out for you to look upon and admire my lack of smack in facing it head on. I will not take this time to write a laundry list of praises I think I deserve. Time is a cradle, today, to gently hold music’s “naissance de satisfaction” as it was for a performer years ago who melted into the moments …

Late 1980’s. “One” with a grand instrument – a young man exercised his right to tame the demons and call out the angels. Nothing came alive until a key was struck, graced, or summoned into submission. As so many before and since, I felt honored to perform on the very stage where virtuosi and amateurs brought to life their interpretations of the great Masters’ music. This did not need to be the great Carnegie Hall or Lincoln Center. It was a stage, piano, and me … a triangle of satisfaction.

The flip of my tuxedo tails off the back edge of the black polished performance bench always added a touch of elegance. The automatic head tilt upwards, as if to say “I have arrived”, while doing so was always a moment of pride at the end of a grueling few months of preparation. Stretching nine feet ahead, a twisted, organized harp of strings and hammers awaited instructions as small beads of sweat ran down behind my well-pressed ruffled shirt. With one well-polished shoe (on the damper) at the end of a slightly nervous right leg, and another comfortably under the bench waiting to employ the una corda, I was almost ready for Mozart.

The time was near. House lights so dark. I sat alone on stage, but among so many who reclined in darkness with eyes upon me. Silence ruled the moment as seconds demanded attention.

These seconds were the eternal pillars through which I’d pass into the magnificent concert hall of echoing satisfaction. Placing my hands on the keys in silence at the very beginning of this, or any, concert was the most magical gesture for me. The audience was anticipating. I was complete. Everything necessary in order to please the piano gods was at the ivory altar awaiting their nod. Approval given, I began.

Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Chopin … all friends by my side for the next hour and forty minutes enjoying, as I was, every uplifting phrasal draft coming up from the keys. Save the occasional applause pause, each moment a respite from the rigors beating on the drums of everyday college-life stress: The anxieties and pressures of a GPA bearing down on future resumes causing fissures in my already fragile mind, unease tilting the scales of personal relationships, and the hunger for acceptance in a starved wilderness of blind self-ambition to name a few.

Shirt sufficiently soaked. I finished. A final bow as the house manager slowly brought attention to the audience I forgot was in attendance. With a quick glance to the light wooden stage near my feet, one would notice (with a bit of imagination) a few wrong notes left there in Beethoven’s Sonata #23, “Appassionata”, Allegro ma non troppo – Presto movement. I’m confident the janitor would have swept them up in a pile – along with some other mistakes I made – that evening.

All said, there was no greater satisfaction in my life. The request for a picture came minutes later after I shed my tux tails coat and tie. No cummerbund did I wear. I struck a pose, froze, and the picture became one of lore to be framed among others and hung, innocently, in a hallway I pass by everyday. Satisfied, on that day, I gave music what it deserved:

“A place among the magical, invisible places where we can go, as fallible, hopeful beings .. to live, briefly, when we want, satisfied in ourselves, and eternally thankful for the gift of being there.” – THIS is my essence and grace when I place my hands on the keys. My triangle of satisfaction.

2020 220 Mil

They say it starts with a dream. I disagree. My theory: It starts with a few extra dollars in your pocket and a proclivity to gamble. A theory I’ve proven to be true over and over again.

December 31st of “last year” was no exception. My usual non-alcoholic watering hole – where I frequently purchase lottery tickets – is a local gas station at the intersection of a north-south PA route and main street going through town. “Watering hole”, because it’s a place for bottled iced tea (an obligatory, daily personal refreshment) and gas necessary for automobile re-fuelment. These are my two top reasons to stop in, frequently, and “impulsively” (yeah, we’ll go with that word choice) discharge some hard earned money into the abyss of the monster known as the big green lottery machine. When the number of zeros in the odds of winning equal the numbers in the actual monetary prize … yeah, it’s a chasm of the highest order.

The gap between my wanting to win and forking over the loot is very narrow, however. That’s the tendency to gamble … not the ridiculous dream. More on that in a bit …

There are a number of other places to obtain gas and tea. I like this place. A home away from home … away from home. A second resident cousin once removed, if you will. My car has so much a familial relationship with this building I believe it could find a way there itself. I, as well, have a wonderful connection to the family. They are a tight, well-bonded Indian family who have graciously accepted my silly humor, bad days, and family issues. Sometimes, I see my life as one big colorful geisha fan. Between the folds – in the dark creases between the tints of splendor everyone sees – there are friends, everyday friends, who are simply there. This family is in the one of my folds. Always.

The oldest son wears the brightest colored shirts. For me to go a week without complimenting him would be a strange seven days. Not only are the colors vibrant , but the designs are not your typical, standard conservative, plain …. pick an adjective. Motivated, young, personable, presentable, kind, … again, pick a personality trait among the rainbow of choices and you wouldn’t be too far off in describing him.

His dad is all business, all the time. A over-used cliche (I dislike these), but so appropriate. A more conservative dresser than his oldest son and the matriarch of the business empire stretching across the ocean to India. Always respectful toward his customers, as expected, demonstrated by the “Hello, Mr. Doug” immediately spoken to me .. every… single … time I enter. He could be in the back shouting from the freezers, doing paperwork at a desk in the side room, or wiping off a coffee counter – always acknowledging a customer’s arrival. There is no other establishment in my hometown where this occurs. Yes, there’s the, “May I help you?”, or the, “Is there anything I can do for you?” … kinda not the same, though. In fairness, there is one other place, however, this gas station / iced tea gentleman doesn’t ever use sarcasm, so a different category of customer service.

Iced tea in hand and a few extra dollars, I decided to play, again, yesterday for the drawing tonight – New Year’s Day. Why not, right? No use in making a New Year’s resolution I have absolutely no intention keeping. The small gap in my wallet should match the infinitely smaller space between an urge and an implementation. I carefully place my six one-dollar bills down on the black stained counter in front of me thinking, “If the scratch-off maniacs would simply wait a few seconds and dig into their addictions somewhere else, … like I do” internally chuckling at the irony.

As quickly as the thought ended, the green monster spit out my ridiculous-odds tickets. My friend casually handed me the “proclivity to gamble authorization passes” notated with the numbers $220,000,000 unimpressively emblazoned in small, abbreviated form: Powerball Jkpt. $220 Mil. This is why I don’t believe in the dream theory.

The odds are sooo incredibly bad, THEY don’t even print all the zeros of the jackpot on the ticket. “1 in 292,201,338” are the actual advertised odds (www.cnbc.com google search). Apparently I have only three of the possible combinations @ $2 each. Fair trade, right? My calculator doesn’t have enough zeros on the right side of the decimal to calculate the percent dividing 292 million into 3.

Buying a ticket does not start with a dream. It starts with driving onto the parking lot of a wonderful convenience store, day after day, walking into a welcoming handshake, and plunking down a few well-earned dollars on black-white-and-red little pieces of paper.

I could not do this and save the money. The iced tea and gas would still be available for purchase. My days would fold out into weeks .. into months … into years if I am so lucky and blessed to have that. My fan folds wouldn’t change much. I’m sure my Indian friends would appreciate “Mr. Doug” whether or not I buy lottery tickets.

Eleven p.m. EST, knowing my day, I’ll be sleeping – probably dreaming. The lottery system will be up a running with the Powerball drawing broadcast live on t.v.. My tickets will be in the usual place. If the magic balls fall in my favor, I will not know until the sun rises tomorrow, January 2nd , 2020.

I’m debating a follow-up blog tomorrow. Should I? Shouldn’t I? If I don’t post anything, is there a possibility, in my absence, a jackpot win is assumed? If I post up a completely different subject, am I being coy? What if I say, “I didn’t match a single number.” – would you believe me? (you should, btw…). I’ll leave it at: “Happy New Year” for now and let’s see what the ‘morrow brings. ‘kay?

Until then, “… to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep … what dreams may come…” (Hamlet)

My Amulet

I fell in love today.

It took only one bite to realize my original plans of a year-end silent soliloquy was toast. To be fair, the wheat toast was already ingested when, after one forkful of an omelet barely eaten, I espied the most amazing of shapes before me. Peppered plate un-rotated, friends surrounded me in unimpressed amazement, and I – a willing accomplice in this jovial platter of blog-worthy coincidence before me … were all together on this last day of 2019.

Who knew? Certainly not I. The ordering of a simple sausage, egg, and cheese omelet earlier should not have, under normal circumstances, required a quick holster draw of a camera phone. This morning was not a normal circumstance. If it was, I’d be uploading the pre-planned writing saved yesterday and attaching pictures of flowers, moonbeams, and stars. Well … not really, but you get my point.

As it seems to be, I am not doing that currently. What I am doing is posting up a camera shot of a ever-so-partially eaten omelet. “Unimpressive”, by your standards, perhaps, but “Magnificent” in my eyes. As an aside, you continue to read, so I know your infatuation with “Amulet” the omelet (yes, I’ve assigned a name – don’t judge me) is equal to my initial attraction. What drew me in? What stopped me from another viscous tining into the eggy breakfast fare?….

…. Why, the shape? The luscious shape. Look at her. Is there anything more beautiful than a head, dorsal fin, caudal fin, and pectoral fin glistening back off a porcelain peppered plate? Ah, my Amulet.

I’ve been wanting “different” lately. My friends knew nothing of this “different”. I entered the cafe hungry. I knew it was not a hunger for food, but longings and connections with seafaring, romantic impulses missing in our landlocked community. The wanting of warm waves rippling in my toes. Salty ocean breezes and greased air from boardwalk fryers crossing beneath my nose are so absent here.

As is stands, I take my pleasures where they are. Omelets and all. Imaginings take shape in our wonderful minds. In these places live oceans of ideas. Today, I have a friend … on a plate. And she’s special.

I chose the name for two reasons. First, should I ever compose a song, “Amulet” and “omelet” are close in rhyme and/or sound. Grammy worthy, perhaps not, however I can dream of her in my private evening nocturnes and be quite satisfied in that alone. Second, amulets protect against all the “bad stuffs” possibly coming my way.

I will have to take solace in only thinking about Amulet as time moves forward into 2020 and beyond. Reflecting upon our short time together this morning, I am so keenly aware she left me as quickly as she entered.

Because I ate her. And she was delicious. Fins and all.

Sometimes love requires sacrifice. I will forever remember beauty as her shape.

My sausage, egg, and cheese Queen. My Amulet.

If Only

To my friends,

If only all promises made were fulfilled,
Would your life be the same?
If only disappointments weren’t at hand,
No regrets, no fear, no pain.

If only expectations were somehow true,
Would you then have some relief?
If only everyone else came by for you,
No guilt, no shame, no false belief.

“If only” is a concept that doesn’t exist
-Hope for the future as you’d like it to be.
Now has no “if only” – the past is what was
“If only” puts chains on expected reality

Today didn’t show because of two words.
Tomorrow will be here regardless of you.
The past lived before, gone by as the time.
“If” you are doing, sometime did, or will do.

Saying, ‘If only I didn’t hear all of this now
then what would be worthwhile to learn?”
I’d say, “You did it regardless of ‘if only’
Your life needed a substantial turn”

All promises made aren’t fulfilled.
Your life will remain the same.
There will be disappointments at hand.
Stop playing the “if only” game.

Expectations are infinitely seldom true
Answers aplenty don’t knock on your door
No one may help you get through your life
Instead of “if only”, ask “what is my awesome life for?”

It’ll give you purpose, goals, and a hope
For a future you’d happily embrace
“If only” steals joy from your now as it is.
Wiping smiles and joy off your face.

I, too, need to learn as well not to say
These two words here-to-fore said,
“One day at a time” – our lives are lived out
“if only” in our expectant heads.

Sincerely as one heartbeat at a time,

Doug