This Post Isn’t About You Or Is It?

A colleague from work told me a story about a Texas distillery that I found intriguing enough to look up online, never guessing that I would see something that shocked me.

You see some years ago I wrote a story about a place and some people living here in Texas never expecting that the pictures I saw here would resemble much of what I had imagined.

It is not exact, but the lack of precision is something I appreciate because it follows my own storytelling instincts in providing an outline that the reader fills in.

As I wandered through their website and read a little bit about what they do, how they do it and how they got started more pieces fell into the picture I painted inside my head and maybe that is how I came to see the ranch as being similar to the images from the story.

The funny part about it is that when I wrote that piece I saw the characters as being about 50 or maybe a few years older.

Why is that funny?

Because I was around 44 and 50 was still far enough away to sound old and now, well it sounds young.

This Post Isn’t About You Or Is It?

The people call, write, text and email to ask me about the posts I write.

“Was that about you or about someone else? Who was the other person you wrote about?”

Sometimes I answer and sometimes I don’t but even when I do I don’t always provide the straight and clear response they are looking for.

They complain I intentionally obfuscate and sometimes I nod my head or agree with them, but not always.

Sometimes I take bits and pieces of the people and places of my life and insert just enough of them to provide a foundation  a reader can fill in.

If I told you about the thunder and lightning that accompanies this evening it might make you think about lots of different things, but would it make you think of being a pirate?

‘Cuz at the moment that is what I see, myself living life on the sea as an outlaw. Living by my own code and rules, doing as I please but living to a code that is clear to me.

Stay out of my way and I stay out of yours, mostly, but get in my way and you get my attention.

Gain that particular gift and you might find me to be a merry man or the kind of rogue you don’t speak of with a smile in your voice.

That particular scene only lasts so long because my inner Walter Mitty demands it go elsewhere.

Soon I am listening to a different song and comparing it to another cover, thinking about how often I understand what Picasso meant when he said:

“I begin with an idea and then it becomes something else.”

My best writing comes from just putting the words on the page and letting them lead me where they think I need to go and not the other way around.

Echoes In The Hall

A moment ago I listened to the climactic section of the Peter Gabriel cover of Heroes, the one with the orchestra in the background and was going to share something about secret kisses and what comes with it.

I, I can remember
(I remember)
Standing by the wall
(By the wall)
And the guns, shot above our heads
(Over our heads)
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall
(Nothing could fall)

Was going to include the section below and talk about how it speaks of teamwork and companionship.

And the shame, was on the other side
Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes just for one day

It would have been amazing, the pieces there. You wouldn’t have to say much other than show clasped hands and fill in the blanks.

But Can’t Find My Way Home came on and the words insisted I follow.

They reminded me of standing in a room with my arms handcuffed behind me and someone standing in front.

“I am here because I choose to be, not because I have to. Never mistake these silver bracelets for anything but jewelry I choose to wear.”

They smiled and said something about ego taking me to places I ought not to visit.

I smiled back, wriggled for a moment and then brought my hands forward, one uncuffed,  the key set inside the lock of the other.

Sometimes the ties that bind us are real and sometimes they only exist because we believe they do.

“A picture is not thought out and settled beforehand. While it is being done it changes as one’s thoughts change. And when it is finished, it still goes on changing, according to the state of mind of whoever is looking at it. A picture lives a life like a living creature, undergoing the changes imposed on us by our life from day to day. This is natural enough, as the picture lives only through the man who is looking at it.”
― Pablo Picasso