It Was Humid the Day Before I Left.

Ready for the speedy return?

For the transatlantic passage? 

Ready for the Autumn to come again? 

Ready to run, like I did in the dark of Woods Hole years ago.

I think you cried, he stayed behind, and I took off across the parking lots to the bus station. 

Steamship in the dark, bathed in florescent spotlights and winter coming soon. 

Ya, I’ve spent too much time in this place.

I see that now. 

Too much time in the spirit of the ocean, like spirits in the old haunts that are no longer haunted by us, only my visions of you all, as though I were a mystic in a trance.

Or maybe that’s what I’ve become. 

Seeking out visions of the time back way back in the wreckage of iron and mires of coffee dates. Dig through the mud to find an old puppet from ages ago. 

It was all so new back then. 

Hair in the wind, Wool coats and freckles from the end of the world. 

Letting go slowly but surely, drinking less caffeine now. Taking more photos. Running across the frozen wastelands of the continent. Whatever these symptoms mean, I don’t know, I’m no medicine man. 

Maybe a connexion man. Gathering his memories in the hart of the wood.

I’ve got a new bag and some borrowed car keys. 

I’ve got visions of the future billowing up in smoke.

Dance in the light of so called bond fires, 

their light is near enough to the truth. 

Doing my best to walk the streets as a ghost in flannel, a messenger of quiet hearts and internal bleeding. Here’s to such sentiment. Here’s to the night walk and long conversations on the dock. Here’s to classical music, and to the ever nearing autumn.

The Wisdom Earned From A Busted Knee.

I guess that youth is the under appreciated one in the relationship, its the dishes in the kitchen sink no one bothered to wash but we keep using and using till the grime on the porcelain and enamelware makes us sick. I could start smoking and feel like an artist. I could continue to walk on this busted knee I gave myself when I tripped in the dark. I’ve got old recordings of Dylan and cereal at noon. Its been fourteen hours and the swelling has yet to recede. 

I guess the gift of our youth is something of a mystery to us until its too late, made our way through the porthole only to realize the bulkhead is shut and buckling. Only then, in the dark of the submerged hold, can we understand the steps we took to get there. 

I cant take pictures for a few days with this leg, and its given me time to think over the world outside my parent’s house in the week before I’m due to leave it for the second time. 

Our youth, and our opportunity, has yet to become realized, just as I had yet to realize the structural integrity of my kneecap before it too was compromised by the stone. Its out there, like the buskers and homeless men I have yet to meet and photograph and share a word with. And maybe every once and a while one in his delusion will scream out at me, and maybe I’ll get an odd look, but for the spirit of the adventure I have yet to experience, I am ready to take up a pick and a blanket and ship out for Normandy. 

Youth is the fleeting freckles of a girl I knew back in high school. Age is the graying hair of my father, and arguments in the car. The mind of a writer is something of a mire. I can dig up the fruits of forgotten rituals for the purpose of remembering the Tollund man, or I could join him in the peat and filth of the bogs. 

So move out at a hobbled pace, on ibuprofen and swollen tissue. When I am healed, I will return to live on my own for a bit. Find my own path on the sidewalks of my world.