Been a hell of a week and a hell of a day which might explain why I am on my second tiny shot of Macallan 12.
Going to have to go out and replace this bottle soon and aren’t you jealous that it is me who drank or is it me that is jealous?
Wait, don’t answer that or the first cuz they’re nonsense anyhoo.
Move on to the first song of the post and join me on a journey of discovering where this post is going.
I promise to be more controlled and precise than the RAV-4 driver whose erratic driving made me wonder if maybe he had been the one drinking or was blindfolded.
That is what or is it this is what happens during a post fact time and space where politicians lie and the people see only what they want to see.
Brother Pablo asks if I really intend to grab another beer.
“My friend, the morning may not be as you like if you continue.”
“Brother Pablo, if your windows ache maybe you ought to close them, never know who will climb in or who will try to climb out.”
Brother Pablo gives me a knowing smile, places a hand on my shoulder and asks me if that workout at the gym didn’t show me that progress is being made, even if slower than I wish it to be.
“Fuck, sometimes I am impatient. It was the best I have had in a long time. The tendinitis or whatever has been plaguing me was no where to be seen and I swung the weights without concern.
Still built like a fire plug and not nearly thin enough, but if strength means anything, well I have that in spades and aces.”
Brother Pablo asks me if I know what it means that the rain exploded into the sun and I nod my head.
“Aye, me and Sailor Sam are running with the moon, howling.”
Brother Pablo asks when I’ll stop running and whose care I’ll belong to.
“No one, I belong to none but me and my care is my own. Alone and apart is how it goes and I shall continue to be the storm walker and fire dancer until fate releases me. Don’t see it happening soon, still tasked with playing Atlas.”
Brother Pablo shakes his head and tells me there are those who would share the load if I let them.
“I know things, but I am not a fucking mind reader. If I was the lottery would be mine and I would adopt a different life style.”
This time he smiles, toasts me and we engage in a three minute discussion in Spanish, but only after I apologize for not being as eloquent in it as he is in English.
A teenage boy and I bump into each other somewhere after midnight but not quite dawn.
We speak about the things only fathers and sons know and I quote The Boxer.
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.
“Dad, are you saying that about me or about you?”
“Maybe both.”
“What am I to make of this?”
“Make a hat, a boat or just file it away and think about it. Look up the lyrics. Got one more to share.”
In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev’ry glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
‘I am leaving, I am leaving.’
But the fighter still remains
As I walk away I tell him I am walking into the unknown and I don’t know nearly enough to be as comfortable as I might like.
“The big rewards don’t come to us, we go to and find them. They demand faith in ourselves and our ability to figure it out. That is what I do, I figure it out.
I remember every cut too, but the fighter still remains.”
I tasted life and now I want more.
Can live with and under a yahrzeit candle and say I have gotten all I could get and done all I could do but it is part of the dishonest honesty of the day.
I am looking up at the sky, searching for my north star and once I regain my bearings I’ll start moving forwards again.
Always forward.
Got to find the joy in the journey and will keep walking alone or with others, but always forwards.
