Resurrecting letters from a file aptly titled, Yosh & Cindy brings me back to life, back to a time when all I needed was a spot on the hardwood with a long mirror. Yosh at the camera. Cindy at the camera. Both of us on the floor free, laughing, seeing the good in each other, willing it out of the other, being real, being young and not knowing better, swapping tales, listening to records, an endless list of firsts. Always laughing. I think of those days often, I do not think of those days enough. Those were the days then, I was one year older than a teen; he has always been a man. But most importantly, he is a writer who taught me what it means to write!
We were very young once. He wrote this to me in a letter, I fell in love again. An excerpt from a man I have spent my whole life loving.
is there a break in the progress? have all forms of growth suddenly been put on hold and the remaining life tossed into a room of waiting? has it always been exactly as it is now? turning, rising, falling, stopping, going, weeping, laughing, cursing, starting? is this the progress? the compromise of progress? the rise and inevitable fall of progress? is there even now, or has there ever been, a progress to measure?
she sighs, wipes forehead, sits on a park bench and waits until further instructed.
this park bench is old and falling apart. the paint has been chipped away. perhaps i could go to the hardware store and purchase the necessary supplies to fix this bench. that would be progress wouldn't it? and i am here to progress am i not?
the sun laughs alot.
excuse me sir, would it be at all possible for me to purchase some of that paint? it's for an old park bench that could use a face-lift!
i'm sorry miss, this paint is not for sale, you'll have to try walmart.
the sun laughs alot.
i haven't been entirely honest. i didn't sit on the park bench. i did go to the park though, but i sat on the grass in the shade and leaned up against a tree. the first place i sat didn't have enough shade so i switched spots before i melted. cold hearts melt in the sun.
i read a couple of lifetimes i had spent on paper. stored away right in front of my face, so that i can never read or write in them again. i started to write but the pen immediately dried up. shit.
some of the lives were sad. some of the lives were hopeless. some of the lives were excited. some of the lives were dreaming. some of the lives were puzzled. some of the lives were fictional. many exaggerated. nearly all dramatic.
some of the lives said they were soilders of christ.
some of the lives said they had nothing to say.
some confident, sure, and proud.
others frail, terrified, and ashamed.
all of the lives were my own. or what i call my own. or what i wished i could call my own. either way all of them had been exhausted.
my appologies for the ongoing exhausting.
when i got up to leave the park and started walking to the car i thought "maybe that's all i needed. 25 minutes in the park reading a history of whispers. a friendly reminder that my body was once a dwelling place of God, and perhaps still is. i spent the rest of the day in a car, driving.
the son loves alot.