Tuesday, April 5, 2011


It's been a hard thing to find any reason to write on this blog. Part of what I would occasionally write about has been surrendered to the Gazette. It fits there and that seems to be going as well as can be expected, which should leave plenty of room for my hellish misadventures and goofiness.

The problem is things have been quiet --or they have trampled into the territory of those things which I may not speak of. There are also things I just don't want to write about.

There is a lull. I don't know what to make of it.

My nerves are frayed. That much I can say without explaining the reasons why or describing in any detail the people responsible. Everything is raw. It's like an agonizing karmic sunburn. Moving in any direction hurts.

Yesterday, I went to the library, hoping to find inspiration, escape or God, if he happened to show up. I find lately that I miss talking to God or really, I miss hoping to get some sort of an answer.

As always, I follow my eyes, look at those things that draw me toward them and wonder why? It's never simple. I am always Alice following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole.

Down a block, I saw a slender woman in a figure hugging purple dress. The color was vibrant, almost hallucinagenic and completely wrong for a Monday afternoon downtown. She was pretty. In that dress, I could make out the shape of her underwear. She ought to have gone with the thong, but it wasn't exactly about sex. It was curiosity. I turned just to see where someone wearing what looked like something a woman might wear to a cocktail party would be going.

I turned the corner and saw a weary, middle-aged woman pushing a five-year old boy in a wheel chair. He was half asleep, head lolling to the side while his arms were curled rigidly to his chest.

The boy was handsome, with the well-scrubbed look of good health and a recent haircut. If he could stand, he'd be the kind of kid envious parents would say, "He should be a model." His clothes look like they'd come right off the rack that morning.

The woman's face was unspeakably sad. This was her child. This would always be her child.

I did my best not to stare and not to weep in the fucking street. The woman in purple was gone.

Instead, I continued on my path, returned a load of books I cared nothing about for another batch I hoped would show me something new or speak to me in a way that mattered. I came out with comic books about the zombie apocalypse --reading about the destruction of the world is somehow soothing --and the poet Rumi's big red book.

It was a whim, an idea that came from nowhere. Maybe there's an answer in there somewhere.

The woman in purple was on the corner across the street, waiting, when I came out. Our paths ran parallel almost until the exact place where I'd first seen her then she turned, I turned and we both disappeared.

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