To live in a world meant for other people

The water is murky. By the looks of it without direct sunlight since several years before we land on the moon. Diffraction patterns cover the surface. They emanate from circles, intersections of concrete, water, air, and light. The patterns display symmetries. They reflect the steady hum of traffic above. I will see these patterns many times, but I will lose the hum of traffic, because I start to listen to music during my commutes. It helps keep my little madman from torturing me while my arms are pinned to my sides. The mood of the patterns changes with the music. A hand shackles nature’s gentle flow in a sunless room filled with stale air, and creates something alive and beautiful. A few days each year cherry blossoms fall from distant trees to float among the columns, to litter the surface with a softer edge, a more tenuous future. They are a reminder that one day these patterns too shall die and be replaced with something else. Meanwhile, below the surface, life changes unalte...

The Story of Teddy and Eddie These thoughts come to me this way in the middle of the night, when I am half asleep and exposed. Never this way in the light of day, where I can see them, maybe have a fighting chance. Shadows appear in the mirror, withering shades of gray. They form somewhere beneath the glass, clouding my reflection. I close my eyes. When I open them, the shadows are gone. My eyes play tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time. Reality is a slippery demon. My books on Amazon   |   Subscribe to this site   |   Contac t me   

Clifford and Claudia The Port Authority compares largely to the Bucky Ball Interlink, South Side, a hub for Woody Vine malcontents, freeloaders, hustlers, pimps, pickpockets, and philosophers. There, too, is a strong undercurrent of hope filtered through a comb of despair. Weary expressions come and go, some are idle, sniffing elixirs for their hunger, anxiety, boredom. I have a sense that the people who spend time here know something I will never know, knowledge, experience, preserved and locked away like the paved over history of the city streets. My books on Amazon   |   Subscribe to this site   |   Contac t me   

Syncopated Rhythm A part of me, no matter what the situation, is a little sad. It never goes away. I don’t ever remember not carrying it around with me. It feels like a second set of lungs that have trouble breathing. Sometimes I think I can hear them as they struggle to exhale. Many nights I go to sleep listening to this sound. My books on Amazon   |   Subscribe to this site   |   Contac t me