I was asked regarding the whereabouts of last week’s thoughts. By someone that I sometimes forget still reads. Most folks don’t say much about these. Most observe in silence.
And more than that never see this at all.
But last Sunday was passed over. So it goes.
‘Twas the morning after a wedding. And my participation was that of a groomsman, so it took a little extra gusto than the average attendee for the event. Was the marriage celebration for my roommate throughout all my years of higher education. He swore his love to the girl who lived across the hall our sophomore go around. And that was a good many year ago now. Been together since then.
I know, super gross.
It was a wonderful affair and I believe I managed to not make a fool of myself, though my head did hurt upon that following morning. An occasion for love and laughter and friendship and dancing. And whiskey, of course.
Later, that Sunday evening, I saw some folks I had not seen in just about a decade. It was brief, but rather nice. To see what things time changes and that which stands to remain. Wish I could have stayed later. Wish I could have crossed paths again, but it seems not meant to be. Not now, at least.
The rest that followed was the usual routine of balancing my paying career and being dad. The rewarding labors of life.
My daughter is now a Beatles fan, by the way. We watched Yellow Submarine together. Currently her favorite movie. Ringo is her favorite of the four. Because he’s so silly, I’m told.
Like I said, the rewarding stuff.
But as I pondered the notes wrote this morning- the evening finds me looking back. And upon which this Sunday’s day and night seem to agree upon- is that this on its own in no longer satiable.
Now, now… fret not children. This routine isn’t going anywhere. It just needs supplement. Or better, that this should serve as supplement to something else.
But this is routine. The close cousin of habit. And old habits die slow. Bad ones, doubly so.
Not that this a bad habit. Even if it holds the ever-looming essence of vanity or self-pity. Two sides. Same coin.
But I need more from this. All of this. This fabricated identity. This place of placing written thought. There are words with tuneless rhythm in my head, itching to be out. And not every poem need be written towards romance. Though historically, it doesn’t hurt to pull them forth.
But I have been falling short as a storyteller. And if that not be my top strength, it is by far my favorite. So expect to see more of that. And in hope that new ground might be broken.
This has been good and serves me still. But there is far too much rattling and rolling about my psyche to limit output to only here.
My daughter and I, we make up stories. Be it Scooby-Doo or the Avengers. Or whatever other toys she may have. Sometimes, she just dons her Spider-Man shirt/gloves/mask combo while I play one of the many villains from the webslinger’s rogues gallery. There’s also her entrepreneurial effort of the self-proclaimed ‘Amy’s Café’. It’s a nice little eatery she runs out of her room. Felt sandwiches, empty cups, Disney phony money- the works. I ever got her little notebooks, so she can scribble down the orders in crayon.
In other words- Imagination reigns supreme.
But the point being, I suppose, is that the story telling games are something that always find their way into my life. I now share them with my daughter, but truth be told, there are stories I aim to say that are not meant for three-and-a-half-year-olds. So I must get to telling them.
Gotta think of them first. Inspiration within and out.
Good thing I keep a little notebook with me. Though I tend to use pen over crayon. Though I’ll take what’s available. I once used a colored pencil to make marking out of thoughts in a Copenhagen museum. Lost the pen. Still had the notebook.