The time was sunset during an early August moment just before the sky changed.
All was quiet.
I was sitting in a small beach chair in a field of green grass and looking around at a small park known to me as Eisenhower.
And this place too.
This place dates back to the longstanding memories of this thing I call my youth and the birthplace of too many memories that caused me to worry and fear the backhand of the status quo.
I was sitting and leaning back, looking up to see the clouds and how they stretched like a feathery representation of angel wings, all spread out and beautiful like a Heavenly cover to the lid of a small town moment.
I wondered where Susan Tedeschi was at the moment and if at all, was she playing a song to whcih i recall sharing with you, a long time ago.
This leads me back to a time and a place and a fistful of memories and dreams too, which I’ve always had and dates me back to years of my childhood.
I grew up here.
I was born here and I died here more than once and more than twice and more and more, I recognize that we die on a daily basis, just to wake up the next day and be reborn just the same.
Ah, to you, the month of August.
You have come with news and as usual, the month of August shows proof that the summer is on its way out.
What a beautiful night it was and yet, the night had not begun.
At least, not yet,
The sun was strong and still holding the daily warmth with the typical heat, which I enjoyed as I felt the rays and the way they warmed my skin.
There was something easy about this. There is something innocent too, like an early love when I ran for this and made my first attempts to feel the softness of a young girl’s hand.
Or should I say “ah,” and dare I say “ah” again and think about the beautiful truth of a young boy’s first crush.
This is special
This is pure too and simple as ever, enough to make me feel a warm flood of nostalgia, which took me over and allowed me to feel a flood of special emotions, like childhood memories of late 1970’s and how the world was less skeptical and miracles still happened on a daily basis.
I love it like this, the world in simplest ways.
I obviously love the feel of life’s gift and simple moments when nostalgia takes place.
This is good.
And like I said, all was pure for the moment.
And to me, this showed a beautiful purity, same as the purity which comes when we choose to feel the wealth of being “in love” or to love someone honestly, before selfish insecurities robbed us of basic realities and made us complicated.
And . . .
The truth is . . .
Love is simple. So is life, except when to do so would be confused or complicated by the deception of insecure thoughts.
And I have thoughts too, which I consider to be a serious problem or otherwise known as the deception of my perception. I know.
I remember.
But also, I realize how this has taken me away from my truths since the summer before September 20, 1980.
I was only eight at the time . . .
I think back to a time and to a place, the park, or the sincerity of autumn, or the change of pace which comes when sprintime comes around.
I think of parks and places like this, which are a small and humble setting, and yet this place is bigger to me than the memory of the first time I saw the world from a window seat in a slow-moving bus.
I compare this place to the variations of similar dreams, which take me back to a thought and a memory of a bus trip that took place when I was 17.
So much has happened since then.
I was young and dying and on fire to live and still; I was heading home to say goodbye to a previous life and my very first hero, my Father, The Old Man.
This was our last talk and our final embrace as Faher and son
Ah, but I digress.
I know there was more to this moment. I know there is more to this life. There is more to me and more to you. There is more to us and more to the moment at hand, which I viewed from my small chair, sitting in the green grass on the hill of a field and waiting by a small, outdoor theater.
You were there too. Then again, maybe you have always been there.
With me . . .
I was there to hear cover bands play music that would otherwise make me dance and feel the need for the closeness of “her” cheek.
You –
Ah, love!
C’est la vie or pronounced to us Americans as “say la vee,” which translates from the French to mean, “such is life,” or “this is life,” and in which case, I say yes.
It is.
This is life and this is love and this is all I have, open and bleeding for the whole world to see and so, in some ways; I am weeping like a newborn, fresh into the world and taken from the warmth while being smacked on the bottom to make my first cry.
I swear, nothing should interfere or intercept this thing we call happiness.
Nothing should get in the way.
Nothing should degrade us or take us away and nothing, no matter how far away, no matter how big, or how heavy things may seem; nothing in the world should ever weigh us down or detach us or distract us from the one and ultimate truth.
You should always yearn.
Yearn to live. Yearn to die.
Yearn to love to the utmost and wildest extreme.
Make no excuses and take no prisoners.
Yearn for the smallest or simplest things and yearn to make them just as beautiful as the dreamy sight which I see when looking upwards at the white trails behind a fast-moving airplane which is flying over and heading nowhere.
Nothing has the right to destroy me.
No one has the right to deter me.
Life is life and love is love and yes, c’est la vie.
such is life
or at least, so they say.
And yes, such is the resigned acceptance we should have when finding ourselves, elsewhere, or in an otherwise place which is distant and far from where we’ve always wanted to be.
I thought about you while remembering the song “Angel from Montgomery.”
So, I sent it forward . . .
“If dreams were lightning
And thunder was desire . . .
. . . this old house would have burned down
a long time ago.”
I love that
I see why God has made you my Angel
And whether you fly from Montgomery or from the green hills at the Harry Chapin Theater at Eisenhower Park, no one in this world will ever see you as beautiful or as a amazing
As the way I do now. . .
I promise
The Written Addiction 