These are just thoughts. That’s all.
They are written in random order and without thought, without plan, without direction, and most times, I swear, I have no idea which way this will go.
But I know where I want to go.

I want to pull in close and feel the music, which is like something I have always dreamed about if I ever went to San Francisco, which I grant you reality might never match my fantasy and the streets I’ve hoped for might never look like the streets that exist. But still, I want this.
But even more, I want to take this slow.

Come to think of it . . .
I think I’ll take a page out of your playbook.
And so . . .
Please, let me begin.

It was cold this morning. I suppose this is nothing more than a preface of what’s to come. And who knows what’s in store?
Another chapter in a lifelong book? Another moment of obscurity?
Morning’s are preparing for the precursor of a new season.
I see this as Mother Earth, allowing me a chance to foreshadow and see the fall, the autumn months and the colors of change, and then what?
The winter is up next. Right?
Next, we find ourselves in the grand hibernation of winter in the Northeast, which is where I am.

I am thinking of the days of old, or the days of my yesteryear, only the years are decades ago.
There I was, alive and well, and a crazy young man on the prowl.
I remember as if it were yesterday yet, I remember this as if it were something that happened to someone else. Or maybe I recall this as if this all happened to me in a past life.
Or maybe this was only a dream.
But I was there. I know I was.

Maybe I was just a witness or perhaps these memories are like sitting down to watch a long movie with subtitles—and sometimes, I was able to keep up with the words and other times, no.
Not so much.

Here I go again, dreaming out loud with hopes that the words leave my heart and reach an altar peace somewhere, or somehow find my intended destination of something we’ve called happily ever after.
I am not here to ask for immunity nor am I expecting all to be healed or forgotten.
I mean, after all, we all have a past and we all have our mistakes and the weight of regrettable things that we say out of anger.
Everyone has bad memories and nobody wants to repeat the unwanted yesterdays. So, in fear, we refuse to go gentle or to allow ourselves to feel or be vulnerable because, yes, we have all felt foolish before.

I know that I have,
And I know what this has done for me.
(Absolutely nothing.)

Labor Day Weekend, 2024

Sunrise came later this morning. Your early resurrection was put on hold, at least briefly, or perhaps this is just for now. It is early but not as early as life allows.
Time is ticking and life can be escaping us, right now; unless, of course, we choose to make a move.
I have to say that this is a morning of contemplation.
Do you understand what that means?

Ah, just skip it.
What a great idea this would be, to just skip it, or walk away, or to “cut out,” like we did when we were kids, remember?
Skipping school or cutting classes, and maybe finding ourselves in a group somewhere, like on some class trip of our own—only, there was no class of any kind, and perhaps the trip was everything and anything but innocent.

There has to be a time when we can lay back and just let the music play.
You know?
Just escape . . .
What an idea this is.
Come to think of it, I was listening to a speaker suggest that everyone should devote at least 30 minutes of their day to some form of meditation — unless you’re really busy, and if you are, then make it an hour.

There is, of course, the outstanding balance which is something that I believe we should talk about.
What I mean is, I believe in the debts of the heart and, equally, I believe in the “give and take” and the rise and fall of the tides. Further, I believe that not all that glitters is gold nor is there always a good time or a good place.
Not everything will run smoothly, but at the same time, no one can kill me forever.
Understand?

Last ride on the ghost machine, this morning.
Then again, or as the saying goes, there are last rides,
and then, there’s the last and final ride,
no thanks, or thanks to you
Fentanyl . . .
Oftentimes, nobody knows
which is which
or what comes next.

I can’t say that I know for sure about what’s out there.
I don’t know if there’s an Old Man in the sky with a long gray beard or if there is a loving mother, as in Mother Earth, or as it is depicted in pictures, the Loving Mother, as in Hail Mary (full of grace, the Lord is with Thee) and I am unsure what I think about who has the rights to reserve which god is right or wrong.
I do believe, though.
I’m not sure why or what I believe in. I’m not sure if I believe because I like the idea of being absolved or heard while at prayer. Perhaps, maybe I believe because the opposite of belief is too grim for me to consider.