Relying solely on a section of the newspaper for a movie choice. The excitement of going down through the listings and reading the few lines of script that best described the movie with so few words. You’d spend extra time on the showings with an accompanying photo being most likely the blockbusters. Debate with your fellow movie-goer until the show times force you to pick. Shit, it’s twenty-to. We have to leave if we want to make the 6:00.
I’m telling you. It was a vibe, a feel, an event. I miss it on second thought and wish sometimes we didn’t have to go so fast. – Ash
my winter retreat was lonely flurries turned into storms dark skies seemed always cold bit me every second ice through my veins stiffened from life sharpen gales to cut me away I was polar from everything sitting barren until her voice her light all that warmth from beyond chiselled me free of that void capsule I am her sun she is my days
Welcome back, join me and my continuing conversation about my thoughts, feelings, and emotions to the world around me.
In this episode, I talk about how thinking about the great Christmases of the past can make you excited for the Christmases of the future. Join me for a few memories with some of the backstories. Oh, and as always, I throw in a poem, no wait, a Christmas poem for good measure.
6:05 kicking rocks every stride a pebble or two summer hugging me the whole way the sun was slowly packing up for the day and the moon would be here in a few hours Saturday so lazy dogs paid no mind to pesky flies or to an orange cat nibble-ling a rickety fence right there, in front me as my freedom faded away
6:06 I placed my gaze everywhere taking in as much still time as I could before drunkards beckon me fill me full of lies, blow smoke in my face tell me I’m cute when no one’s watching and shout more regretful things make promises…break promises dance sing love hate take swings jest do it all past the pale of moonlight or until clocks shoo them away
to the place they all knew my name the walk to a bartender was a rehearsal for a keeper of tabs a keeper of secrets a keeper of ale it’s 6:07 what can I get ya…
no idea where I was going where my footsteps were taking me not long off the bus and my bags still hanging off the borrowed bed I’m running toward something my faith in a girl next door relationship built on the stock of only a few summers we were school break friends and I just had to see this according to everyone and everyone was going to be there that was the promise and with a pinky swear I was a nervous boy in a foreign land on loan from thirteen-year-old best buds speaking only the language of the shy and quiet ones making what would become a beautiful memory under the bright big moon along the sparkle-kissed river surrounded by the sounds of the teenage on a warm night in August by the trestle bridge