My dog was my best friend and when he died,
I buried him off the trail of one of our favorite hikes.
The seats and windows in my Jeep are ripped up.
My ex-girlfriend just got married to a guy that looks like me.
I went for a three-day hike off the trail and into a thunderstorm
with my best friends and my legs are scratched and bitten beyond human recognition.
I used to own goats and I want to be a farmer.
I like to lay out in a field and watch shooting stars with my best gal.
I pick blackberries for her and call her my huckleberry.
I work at an auto parts store but I'd rather be camping.
Get me out of town and I'm a happy man.
My life is a country song.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
The story of why I was at this artist thing
People keep askin' if I be writin' stories.
(Please don't hold my faux-grammar against me.)
I keep saying no, and they look disappointed, like, why are you at this artist gathering?
Well, I figure I'm old enough to decide who I want to hang out with.
And I like people who are artists and storytellers.
I like to listen to their stories, and find mine in theirs.
Why am I here?
Well, I'd like to tell a good story some day.
Like that girl from Cold Comfort Farm, I want to be a writer when I'm 50.
Like her, I bet I'll tell more stories with people than with paper.
I'm not sure I'm old enough to decide who I want to be.
But I keep choosing. By saying yes, and saying no.
(Please don't hold my faux-grammar against me.)
I keep saying no, and they look disappointed, like, why are you at this artist gathering?
Well, I figure I'm old enough to decide who I want to hang out with.
And I like people who are artists and storytellers.
I like to listen to their stories, and find mine in theirs.
Why am I here?
Well, I'd like to tell a good story some day.
Like that girl from Cold Comfort Farm, I want to be a writer when I'm 50.
Like her, I bet I'll tell more stories with people than with paper.
I'm not sure I'm old enough to decide who I want to be.
But I keep choosing. By saying yes, and saying no.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
disquiet
Once upon a time, I had a friend who was a realtor. He liked to sell houses and condos and be involved in business transactions and be professional and ask all his young friends if they wanted to buy houses.
Which was cute, and helpful, and terrifying.
Which caused me to stress out again, and die, and be very sad, and decide that I was doing everything wrong, and be afraid about money, and judge other people by whether or not they could buy houses, and then just generally start spiraling down the staircase of depression.
Then I wrote about it. And did not die. And thought about a brick vicarage in Cambridge, and all the parsonages I grew up in and how I never thought I would have to/think about/be able to buy a house. Ever. And how now is a great time to start thinking about it, but perhaps later is fine, as well.
Turmoil and angst and wishing for a miracle. Is this how everyone feels?
I'm still disquieted in my spirit.
Which was cute, and helpful, and terrifying.
Which caused me to stress out again, and die, and be very sad, and decide that I was doing everything wrong, and be afraid about money, and judge other people by whether or not they could buy houses, and then just generally start spiraling down the staircase of depression.
Then I wrote about it. And did not die. And thought about a brick vicarage in Cambridge, and all the parsonages I grew up in and how I never thought I would have to/think about/be able to buy a house. Ever. And how now is a great time to start thinking about it, but perhaps later is fine, as well.
Turmoil and angst and wishing for a miracle. Is this how everyone feels?
I'm still disquieted in my spirit.
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