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.
There is a trace of snow on the ground. It’s not much but there is enough snow to blanket the ground.
I am awake (obviously) and up much earlier than most people are, which is not unusual for me. I have come here, to the window in my loft and sit for the moment before the daybreak occurs. I have armed myself with a cup of coffee to enjoy this moment of silence. I have come here to share a minute with you before the day takes off. The snowfall is enough to illuminate the ground just before the sunrise. I can hear the heat coming up too, which clicks and clacks, and helps me to fit the mood.
The scene is pretty enough to match the sentiment of where we are, now, and trying to find the answer to the inevitable question, which is, “Where do we go from here?”
There is no time for New Year’s resolutions. Not today. Or should I say at least, “Not for me.”
I am reminded of a line from a song that says, “The revolution will not be televised.”
This is not to say that I am looking for a revolution or the need to revolt nor am I entering my plea for political attention; however, I am showing the need for change.
I was the youngest in my house. I was the little brother too and the one, always trying to tag along, and always poking the bear, so to speak, and always crying after I took the beating, which I probably instigated.
It is true, I was the little one and yes, it is also true that being the little one led to certain unfortunate things.
This led me to things like dead-arms or dead-legs, which is literally when someone punches you in the arm or leg.
I believe the reason why I wanted to write is the same reason why anyone does anything. I began to write because I wanted to find my way.
I wanted to understand myself but more than anything else, I wanted to find my own source of freedom.
In this case, everything I would have to write about would need to be true, which may not be true to you or anyone else —but that was okay with me because everything I wrote and everything I journaled is and was true to me. And such is the same that can be said about perception, in which I mean perception is not truth; it’s just true to me, which is fine for now.
There is a little Church up in a town called Callicoon, which I remember very well. The building itself was old and small, white shingles on the outside, with a few stained glass windows and a peak with a steeple like one would imagine. This place is a memory from back when I lived on the farm as well as a moment when I came to grips with the person I used to be.
I was sent here a few times to clean the Church on Saturday mornings to make things ready for Sunday’s Mass, which, to be honest, I never felt comfortable in Churches-especially alone, and by myself, but either way, this is where they sent me.