Today is the kind of day to go out and commit some misdemeanors, hunker down under a railroad overpass and sip a cup of coffee with a little something in it, smoke some cigarettes and try to read the hazmat codes as the trains roll by. Sulphur dioxide, that’s a 1079 and good old benzine, that’s an eleven fourteen.
Ride off along the railroad tracks and across some posted land, sweating up a game trail hot-boxing in your gore-tex under a drizzling rain.
Today is the kind of day for laying up in a south Willamette valley bungalow weaning yourself off the dilaudid. Slowly moving broken bones and torn muscles and wondering what will ever replace the sweet ache of the body healing?
Put a little Smoky Robinson on and try to follow the tracks of those tears running down the faces of all of us: the poor, sorry, hopelessly grown. It is embarrassing to want it so bad, like air-balling three-pointers embarrassing to admit that yes, you really do just want one more day in your 10-year-old body with your ten-year old thoughts and trying- by the pure power of belief- to seriously stop growing up. Stop it in its tracks like a tank of benzine, failing inspection.
There’s nothing you can do man, and it’s going to be okay.
OMG, AMEN! At least we now have written proof that that little kid’s clear vision is not gone.
I hear you.
The forlornness is part and parcel to this world of form. “Grown ups” world. I cross my bridge to the world of *space* as often as I can. Keep the balance my friend…. you know the way.
Besides, you grow up but you don’t have to grow old where it counts: inside your head. Think of your granddad, running across that big yard filled with mole holes and God-knows-what, flying a kite Grandma made him out of old Christmas wrapping paper. And he did it just because. Because he, too, remembered that trapped inside that 90-year-old man was a little guy who still caught tadpoles and crawdads — and knew the joy of flying a kite.