Put me out there, know what I mean?
Put me out there in the middle of the ocean when the sun is high, the sky is blue and the winds are just enough to blow back my hair. There is no tension, no grief, no reason to believe or disbelieve anything.
Put me out here where nothing else matters except this, us, and the buoyancy of the deck beneath our feet.
There is a strange buzz about the place now, the city, I mean, and the scared emptiness I see of a pandemic experience, which no one asked to have but “Surprise,” it is here anyway.
And this could just be me —I know this is me and my anxiety, my old familiar friend, and companion, which I call this out for what it is, because it is what it is, which is “Just another day,” because after all; it is in fact, just another day. It’s just another thing. It’s just another concern among a list of many, but I mean come on now, really? Did we really need this right now?
Everyone has their own life’s story. And sometimes I am approached with a frequent idea that begins with something like, “So I heard you’re a writer.”
I am often told about life from someone else’s perspective, which I appreciate. More often, however, I hear the most popular idea which is, “If I wrote a book about my life, I guarantee you it would be a best seller!”
There would be a lot of best sellers out there if this were so, but nevertheless, this is when I refer to my stock response, which is, “So then write it.” This changes the energy of the conversation almost instantly.
There are places I have seen that I never believed I would see. There are beaches I have walked along and sunrise as well as sunsets that I have witnessed. Take for example, one of my last trips to the west coast, Imperial Beach, in San Diego California.
I was up at the sunrise each day and there to watch the sun go down.
I never thought I would be here, but yet, I was there.
I never thought I would have the opportunities that came my way, but yet, I did have them, regardless to what my thoughts were.
I remember back to when I wore those great old clothes. The nightlife was something special to me. This was me, back in the day, trying to sport my outfits like I was something out of a movie.
I was searching for something and weaving through the enigmatic version I had of the city and the scene of downtown, cobblestone streets, and the Merc Bar, which is where I found myself a few times, late at night, wet streets after a summer’s rain, and there was me, looking to find something a bit more than just the average occasion.
I remember a night when I was walking down Broome Street because I decided to step away from the crowds.
I looked up at the buildings and wondered what it would be like if I lived up in one of the lofts. What would I be then? Or maybe the thought was what I could have been.
There are times when words fall short until you press “Play.”
That’s when the music starts.
That’s when the song comes on to introduce the lyrics.
And the songs that fit us best are is not just any songs.
I was driving home just before sunrise on a New Year’s morning. The crowd split and everyone went in their own direction. I was longhaired at the time with two silver hoop earrings in my left ear. I wore a black suit jacket with a tuxedo shirt beneath and a black bow tie. I had on a pair of my “Go-to” trusty but faded blue jeans. They were loose and straight around the leg with rips and tears across the right knee and loose threads dangling from the ripped sections of denim. I wore a pair of black Justin cowboy boots, which I swiped to perfect my appearance.