Ain't That Somethin'

On Wednesday of this week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.

That won't ever happen again.

One Hundred and Twenty-two Days

Cold gray day, holding no promise of rain.
Pale brown soil stirs as I walk, dusty leaves
Crunch under my feet. I pull my jacket closer.
Desert trees in late winter, stark and dark-barked
Against the milky sky.
So many dry days now, a record, leaving everything thirsty
waiting for rain that doesn't come.
Around the next bend, cacti blooms fuchsia, some red;
another yellow, another orange. They need no water.
This year there will be no wildflowers.

An Old Dreamer

Old age brings shallow dreams,
just under the surface of wakefulness.
Not quite reality, but neither
the vivid, passionate, shuddering
dreams of youth.
Sometimes I lie there in that
not quite wakeful state,
aware of aches and itches,
unable to move from tiredness
and the monotony of mild
and colorless dreams.
I long for even the
terror of a nightmare
to warm my body and blood
once again.
~Aiyana

The Road Taken

Tonight I cried for a little girl who stood helpless as her mother and two siblings perished in a raging house fire, and cried for the siblings left with the little girl, motherless and adrift. I cried for the little girl who wanted strength and guidance from a father who could not provide either because he was crazy with grief and blame and anger, blind to facts, deaf to reason, numb to normal grieving. None of them grieved properly. They denied, ignored and turned away from those who offered comfort, as comfort seemed to be a sign of weakness and victimhood.
I cried for a young girl of fifteen who could not see beyond her small hometown world, who thought that her sole choice in life was to marry and have children. There was no vision of choices or alternatives, as those choices may have required risk and change. I cried for her because she wouldn't cry for herself, except when she saw her newborn son and realized that she had set a path that had permanently and irrevocably changed her life. She loved her children, but began to see, too late, that she was not emotionally mature enough to give them the attention children need.
I cried for those children, for the pain they suffered, for the emotionally distant mother who did the best she could, even in her self absorption.
I cried because she made stupid decisions; and knew in her heart that every one of those decisions was the wrong one for her, but chose them anyway.

Moon Counting

Tonight's full moon, extra bright, casts a glow over the nearby lake, its light so bright that the faceted crystal sun catchers hanging in my window twinkle and shimmer. I love full moons. Always have. Many delightful memories of mine include this aspect of the lunar phase. I once shared a perfect night with someone. It was perfect for many reasons, but we attributed a good part of the perfection of that night to the fact that the moon was full. A full moon became our metaphor for happiness.

I never want to miss a full moon--now that I am older and can actually contemplate the dwindling number that I may yet see. There is that subliminal question--how many full moons will I be granted, how many more springs? Although we do not know with certainty how much time we have left to live, later in life, one can be certain that, even if luck is with them, there are just not that many springs or full moons left for them. A depressing thought, but also uplifting as it brings to mind that I have experienced a perfect night--and that someone else out there also looks up at the full moon and remembers that perfect night--knowing that we had something that many never get a chance to experience.

The lines of one of Neil Diamond's '70s hits somehow seems especially appropriate tonight.

And each one there
Has one thing shared:
They have sweated beneath the same sun,
Looked up in wonder at the same moon,
And wept when it was all done
For bein' done too soon,
For bein' done too soon.

More Ebb Than Flow

Writing has an ebb and a flow--some mysterious force that hinders or motivates the mind and fingers to produce, or not. The date of my last post is an indication of which cycle I've been in. Suddenly though, mulling over in my mind the events of the past year on this New Year's Eve, something sparked, so here I am again.

To my best friend, wherever you are, I wish for you a change in luck and fortune in the new year. You have suffered so much these past two-plus years, and it is my hope that it all turns around for you in 2005. And, though I haven't talked to you in over a year, I am confident you will contact me again and we can continue our story.

Odd how much it hurts when a friend moves away and
leaves behind only silence.
-P. Brown