Tuesday, August 31, 2010

An Informed Citizenry?

Here's a recent report on the state of the United States. Yes, the video was made by the New Left - but the people spoke for themselves. I have to try to console myself by thinking that people getting involved is a good thing, right? Even if they have no idea what they're involved in ...

Poems for September

I love Autumn. It has always been the season that stirs me the most. I think I'm going to try to write a poem a day in September - good, bad or in between. I'll have from midnight to the following midnight to draft something and polish it, and then it's on to the next day and the next poem. Spare time of course will be hard to come by, but it will be a good warm up for November's novel.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Canned Heat - On The Road Again

My Twenty-Four Hour Summer

Yeah, all work made Jack a dull boy alright, and a borderline psychotic one too. So I took this weekend off before the kids went back to school. I spent a day with my nine year old getting tumbled by big surf - laughing, coughing, gagging and drinking up half the North Atlantic. Now they're all asleep and this day was well spent. You can't save days, but maybe if you're careful and lucky you can spend a few of them well. Monday is waiting though, just over there, to pull me back into the long march

My Secret Society's Annual Report

When I was a kid I read a lot of comic books and developed a burning desire to embark on an epic mission against staggering odds. In fourth grade, I got the notion to start a secret society - an invisible and elite force for good, fighting evil and holding the world together behind the scenes. I developed an eye for recruits, selected three or four, assigned them code names and training missions, but we were broken by internal differences before we had the chance to do anybody any good. Secret society members are not without ego and, believe me, they present some management challenges. Now, I do my recruiting secretly - not even the members I select know they're in. This policy has been good for stability but we've yet to achieve our first year benchmarks.

More Nostalgia - Strange Children's Television - Lancelot Link

I remember as a little kid having a small black and white television set and waiting for the signal to come on in the morning (was it at 7am?). They didn't have 24 hours of programming back then, and there wasn't much more than 12 or 13 channels, but in the case of Lancelot Link it was well worth the wait (as you can see for yourself).

Friday, August 27, 2010

Mulatu Astatke of Ethiopia

I find this mysterious and hypnotic. It's been in my head for a few years now. Great for dancing alone in your room.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

More Third Grade Nostalgia

This song earned me the nickname "Hellion" on the school bus. The first time I think I ever lost myself in the Rock! Crazy stunt in this video too.

Say Your Prayers

In recruit training, each platoon had two volunteer lay religious leaders among its recruits - one Catholic and one Protestant. Before hitting the rack (going to bed} each night, they would be called upon to say a prayer. Twenty six years have past, and though I was Catholic then, I cannot remember the name, the face, or the prayer of the Catholic lay leader. Kozart was a Baptist from the deep South, and he led the Protestent prayer. He was a small, quiet young man with a shy and innocent smile and his prayers to his God were humble and heartfelt and he said them in a way that made me know he talked to God all the time. Kozart had a mumble and a heavy accent and the only words I ever understood plainly were Help Us, Lord; Forgive Us, Lord; Please Don't Forget Us, Lord; and Thank You, Lord.

On Sunday morning, we had the opportunity to attend religious services, and since this was the only drill instructor-free-zone on the island - we went. Sometimes I was given the responsibility of marching the dozen or so Catholics from 1st Battalion across the parade deck. If you ever feel the need to know what "spirit" feels like, I suggest you pay a visit to a Parris Island religious service. We sang to the heavens, we wept, fell to our knees and prayed for our sanity, the faithfulness of our girlfriends, and our very lives - it was like no other Catholic Mass I've ever seen. God was in the house, or something just as powerful. Then we pulled it together, put the steel back in our eyes and the iron in our spines, and marched back across The Grinder.

I believe the Marine Corps. is a polytheistic organization. In boot camp, we cried out to the god of mercy and made sacrifices to the god of war almost in the same breath. Each night, after the lay leaders said their piece, we screamed the following chant just before hitting the rack:

Devil Dogs, Shock Troops, Blood-Sucking War Machines
Ready to Fight, Ready to Kill, Read to Die but Never Will
Ready To Fight, Ready To Kill, Ready To Die But Never Will
Bends and Thrusts will Make Us Mean
Loyalty and Discipline Make Marines.

Then we sang the Marine's Hymn and dropped to sleep immediately to dream of teenage queens and M-16s. Twenty Six years have gone since then and the words to those prayers have never faded.

There is a common misperception that boot camp makes boys into robots. I screamed my throat raw with the chants and came to believe I could eat fire and walk through walls, but I think most of us found secret ways to preserve something of ourselves. For many it was letters from their best girl, but it was dangerous going all in on a teenage girl - and many, if not most, paid dearly for that bet. For me, it was Natasha Kinski (a 2-inch square photo of her face torn off the top right hand corner of a USA Today spotted in the trash) hidden away in a secret location. My relationship with her was passionately chaste - not, of course, by choice. The instruments of my personal paganism were Ms. Kinski, a night-time view of the water spanned by a barely lit bridge going somewhere else, and this song that played nightly in my head. And because I made these prayers, I came out the other side.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Henry Rollins in Israel

Hooked On a Feeling - Blue Suede

A blast of nostalgia today. This reminds me of being 7 or 8 years old, I thought of it as "the caveman song". It always made me feel better. I hope it works for you too.


I knew a healer once who told me that the work she did came directly from the eye of the universe, and because of this, "burnout" just couldn't happen to her. You can say what you want about healers, but I felt it happen first hand. Today I found myself wishing for her access to that thing. A man in his late 20s, mother recently died, ten thousand dollars cash stuffed in his pockets and a hatchet in his backpack - so lost and afraid of everything he's dangerous now, and he gets restrained by the police - one's got his knee on the young man's head. I wished for her hands, that I could lay them on him and silently level the waves of his terrible invisible electrical storm.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Whopper Head

Corporal Ortiz sings, "does your head feel heavy?", and the rest of us sing it back to him, running up the dusty hills of Camp Pendelton. "Do you feel like your dead?, some of us are gagging now, but we toss it back to him anyway. "Then you must be-e-e", a couple are contemplating falling out, someone else pukes, but most can still sing it back. "A whop-per head !" and I'm both pissed off and consoled by the repetition of that stupid tune yet again as we crest the hill and recover at a shuffle along the ridgeline.

Here it is twenty-some-odd years later, and my head feels like a boulder on a dandelion stem while barely keeping my eyes open at work. And here comes old Ortiz out of the dust of my half-dream like a jolly Mexican tooth fairy pissing me off and making me laugh all the way up this son of a bitch.

Monday, August 23, 2010


I just heard part of an interview with Peter Wolf on a car radio - it was interrupted by having to call police about two girls and a crowd of people beating on another girl outside the local inebriate shelter. The sound of his voice and the autumn feel in the night air tripped a nostalgic feeling. Peter Wolf was the lead singer of the J. Geils Band for 17 years. He's a great frontman, and a great radio personality and radio historian. So good hearing him talk about live radio and how great it was. I guess there's still some around, but it sure seems rare. He's got a recent album called Midnight Souvenirs featuring him doing duets with various folks.

What A Concept!

Embedding! Well, how about that? Now I can make pretty pictures on my blog instead of providing only distracting links to You Tube. I'm not quick, but I get there eventually. It's exciting to look at the map and see that a few people do see this once and awhile (thanks for taking the time). Now, I have to write something worthy of a readership. Until I manage that, here is something heavy to put in your pipe and smoke.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

A Hint of Fall

Tonight hints of Autumn - grey rain,wet streets,damp breeze and the untraceable scent of yearning. The first of the leaves have turned, needles are dropping, I hear a distant train right now. Summer seems to have gone in a day. This has always been the most dangerous time for me, the time I'm most alive. Memories pierce through from a time when I was most pure, more alive, more concentrated, more myself ...and young.

Rowland S. Howard - Pop Crimes

Rowland is a former Bad Seed who left this world this year. This is pretty sexy bass and guitar if'n you're asking me.

A Segment From Baraka

A segment from the film Baraka (1992) directed by Ron Fricke. A must see on the big screen, I think. I hope this inspires you to seek it out. The whole thing is available on You Tube, but it's just not the same.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

The National - Bloodbuzz Ohio

There's not that much popular music that strikes me these days, but this song has been kicking around in my head for the past year. I think it's a good one. Hope you like it.


Stand up straight at the foot of your love
I lift my shirt up
Stand up straight at the foot of your love
I lift my shirt up

I'll rest my eyes till the fevers outta me
I'll rest my eyes to the rivers in the sea
I'll rest my eyes till the fevers outta me
I'll rest my eyes to the rivers in the sea

I was carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees
I'll never marry but Ohio don't remember me

I still owe money to the money to the money I owe
I never thought about love when I thought about home
I still owe money to the money to the money I owe
The floors are falling out from everybody I know

I'm on a blood buzz
Yes I am
I'm on a blood buzz
I'm on a blood buzz
God I am
I'm on a blood buzz

Lay my head on the hood of your car
I'll take it too far
Lay my head on the hood of your car
I'll take it too far

I'll rest my eyes till the fevers outta me
I'll rest my eyes to the rivers in the sea
I'll rest my eyes till the fevers outta me
I'll rest my eyes to the rivers in the sea



For the second time in two days I heard the expression "Southie Sobriety", named for the traditionally working class Boston-Irish neighborhood plagued by alcoholism since its inception and ravaged by heroin and suicide in the 1970's - it's mostly gentrified now. Southie Sobriety refers to a way of getting over on your PO or your meeting or your sponsor and it calls for taking super high doses of Neurontin (not a controlled substance and easier to get than candy) and washing it down with Red Bull. Intoxication beyond detection. A heroin addicted girl, who just turned twenty in detox, told me about it yesterday with a smile like she was a double agent providing a piece of intelligence.  It gets you drunk without the hangover, and you won't pop on any piss test. And the guy tonight, he said it feels like a short manic episode. Well, I don't know which it is, but I do know people go a long, long way just to get outside their own heads for a little while.

On the way back here I walked through the Latin American festival downtown. It's all sectioned off and there's a couple of thousand people down there around city hall. The music is there, the beer garden, the street food and souvenir sellers. Parades of cars in the area flying Puerto Rican flags and blaring salsa music are there as they are every year, but something is missing. I'm walking through a sea of people looking for some good street food and I'm looking at all the faces in front of the bandstand and they are, almost all, stone. The stage is huge, the band is good, but almost nobody dances - almost no body's smiling. I look to a two year old girl, lost in clouds of swirling bubbles, for relief. An almost joyless festival at sunset. Night is coming. The police are out in force around the edges of the thing and they are going to close it down tight at 9pm sharp. Makes me wonder what the night has in store.

Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds - She Fell Away

Friday, August 20, 2010

Die Haut with Lydia Lunch - Der Karibische Western

Saturday Round Midnight In The ER

Drunk Man: "Vodka's a man's drink!"

Nurse (male): "Uh huh."

Drunk Man: "Come here and give me a kiss!"

Nurse: "Nah, you don't want no piece of that".

Drunk Man : "I'll bite your teeth off!"

Nurse: "That's hot."

Mr. John Lee Hooker - Tupelo

To the people of  New Orleans, the Gulf Coast, Haiti and Pakistan. To all those who find themselves at the mercy of nature and of man (all of us). May they both be kind.

Crisis Stabilization Unit

The screen in the bathroom window
 is cut, and the fall
is a good 30 feet, but
the hole is used for smoking now
and not for jumping,
at least not yet.

The bathroom floor is flooded
when I enter to pee, and a sign reminds
me to use a condom
but I'm tired, nauseated,
and not interested in
 like that.

The hallway is awash with
the smell
of unwashed

Everything here seems
unclean tonight,
and not much
at all.

Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds - The Carny

Another late night song. Story time.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Ketty Lester - Love Letters


Video from David Lynch's  Blue Velvet.

Cocteau Twins - Alice



When I was a student, I rented a room in a three bedroom apartment with a shared kitchen and bathroom. I was one step up from broke, hungry most of the time, and I had a dim view of the human condition. One of my roommates was a Korean engineering student who's name I never learned, who never had any visitors, and near as I could tell, never left his room except to go to class. My other roommate was Michael, a man in his 50s on disability with Bipolar Disorder. Michael wrote poems on yellow legal pads in green magic marker and slipped them under my door - most often they were accompanied by the same Kerouac quote -"All is well, practice kindness, heaven is at hand". I couldn't believe it then, Michael - and I don't believe it now, but twenty years later I still hear your message.


Tuesday, August 17, 2010


Does it wear on you to see all that's going on in the world and to basically feel nothing about it and do nothing about it except sit back and wait until it drops on us? One disaster after another. Maybe I write a few words that no one reads about it, or tell someone to hang in there, but I don't do much to help the situation. I'm immersed in my own day to day catastrophes like everyone else.

Like Pakistan in the midst of it's monsoon season at 100 degree heat with nothing but rain forecast for the next couple of weeks with damn near half of the country already underwater. They say there are 20 million people affected, aid has not yet reached many who need it, and there just plain ain't enough to go around.

I donated some money to UNICEF today hoping it will make some kind of difference, to them and to me.


Monday, August 16, 2010

Stay Gold

I watched The Outsiders on the couch next to my little girl last night. She read the S.E. Hinton classic for summer reading, which explained why she wanted me to pick her up a pack of bubble gum cigarettes when I took the boys to the penny candy store. This was her second time watching it, so she wasn't emotional, but she did admit to crying the first time (Ralph Macchio as Johnny choked me up a little too). She said Rob Lowe, as Soda Pop, did a great job (which means she thinks he's cute). We talked about it after, and I said I took three lessons away from the movie: 1). Appreciate sunsets 2). NEVER smoke 3). Wear a jacket when you go out.
Then she played out Matt Dillon's hospital bed scene with the switchblade, "Let's do it for Johnny!"

We were Greasers last night, the two of us - man, how I hoped it could stay,

Friday, August 13, 2010

Tom Waits - Alice


A Visitor!

For two days I've been checking my new magic map excitedly to see where visitors to my blog live their lives. What I did not anticipate was the loneliness that comes with seeing plainly that not one person in the entire silent world visited my blog - no, not one. Until now. I woke up ths morning to see that someone had visited form across the Atlantic in the North of England. Validation! Thanks, JK!

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Who Am I Now?

Between night job and day job I rushed home to take a shower, change clothes, and hug my kids and then rushed out again. While driving to work through a wooded area punctuated by industrial parks, I saw a rusted rattle-trap pull to the side of the road in the opposite lane. A guy jumped out of the car, threw something in the woods, and jumped back in his car - nervous and lightning quick - he watched me pass. A second later a State Police cruiser with its lights on rounded the bend at a high rate of speed and stopped behind the heap. He didn't see what I saw, and that was fine with me - not my business. But it wasn't fine, was it?

I do crisis intervention work, and when I do too much of it, I can't shut it off. I end up sort of unconsciously revved up, hypervigilant, everything feels like my responsibility. So in the next half mile of driving, I remembered that the trooper was alone, it was a wooded area with little traffic, the dude was very sketchy, and I saw it all roll out. This dude was cracked out for sure, busted and he knew it, desperate, and probably dangerously stupid - POW - the trooper catches a round up under his vest and dies in the dirt while I go on my way pretending I didn't see it coming. So I pull a u-turn and go back as another film plays in my head called "Snitches Get Stitches" and it begins and ends with me going to pick my kids up at school - the school yard is empty with the swings swinging back and forth, and I'm falling to my knees - eyes and mouth wide with horror and instant understanding. I drive by them trying to be incognito while I think about how to proceed.

Going into the second lap I call the State Police emergency number and tell them what I saw and see. The operator asks for the number on the side of the cruiser, and I gather that intelligence. Meanwhile I'm driving slow circles around them like a dented Toyota gunship providing close air support. I have aviator style prescription sun glasses on and it occurs to me, vaguely, that I must look insane. In the meantime, I am providing a life saving service. I am an integral part of this operation.

The trooper has let the sketchy fellow go at this point and has himself left the scene. The operator asks for my phone number - I'm committed now - a witness. Another cruiser pulls up, trooper looks at me, I point, he takes off in pursuit. Nothing happens for the rest of the day. Except I wonder if there is something wrong with me or something right with me, and I have no answer. But if homeboy had thrown a suitcase in the woods, I wouldn't have said shit to anyone, and I'd be on a plane to Brazil - right now - with it and nothing else but a toothbrush and a set of pajamas.

Make A Lake

It was this game we played on Parris Island. The drill instructor called us up to the quarterdeck in groups of five or so and thrashed us real good - I mean he'd wear us out to muscle failure, and then call up the next group. Round and round it went, sometimes for hours at a time. I like to think it prepared me for something - like not giving up when that's all you really want to do. In the beginning it damn near killed all of us, but by the end you'd go up there on your own to help a buddy who looked like he was going to buckle by suffering with him - you transfused your motivation, your savage chi - and you pulled each other through, smiling covertly as we simulated the breast stroke in two inches of sweat. Doing it alone is harder.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

National Novel Writing Month, A Kick In The Pants and Killing Joke

Alright, I'd better get with the program and start doing some writing on this blog. I've been writing close to daily on 6 Sentences lately and not posting much of anything on here. I'm a rank amateur with the blog, but I've seen some amazing things on others. I put a tracker on here that will show me where visitors, if there are any, are located. I'm curious about how many people - if any - stumble upon blogs like I do. I hope the map does not put you off. I will not solicit you for money or show up on your doorstep looking for friendship.

I've signed myself up to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November as part of National Novel Writing Month. I have no real concept in mind at this point. Just sit down, type, and see where we go. Should be interesting. If you might be interested, here's the link.


Just to prove I'm righteous, here is Killing Joke from 1980 with "Change" for your dancing pleasure.


I've been working like a dope trying to get financially straight. Last night was the first night in two weeks I spent at home. The kids are feeling it, especially the youngest. I'm on all night tonight, home for a shower and change, then on all day tomorrow and tomorrow over night too. Fun, right? gotta do it. hopefully there will be some quiet time to write. It's not breaking rocks in the hot sun, so I should shut up and appreciate.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Empathy for My Devil

Cast of Characters:
Iggy - The Id (naked, baretoothed, reptilian, driven and impolite)
Sarah - The Superego (the better angel of his being, righteous and high minded)
Edward - The Ego (the poor bastard who listens to and manages both voices and has to live in the world)

Edward St.-Pierre started awake for the fifth time in eight hours amidst the combined drone of the box fan, the noisy computer, and the ambulance's diesel outside the window pierced through by the ringing of the telephone. Five minutes later he was in his car wheeling vaguely toward the emergency room.

"USMC", he mused. Things hadn't changed that much in civilian life, it's still a god damn slog. " You Signed The Motherf***ing Contract, Uncle Sam's Misguided Children" and, his personal favorite, "You Suckers Miss Christmas". "USMC" means same shit, different day or everybody-knows-this-sucks-but-we're-doing-it-anyway.  He giggled and swore out loud at the deceiving empty streets and the blinking traffic lights well aware of the river of chaos running underneath.

The emergency room was typical - stand there for 5 minutes while everyone pretends not to notice you, and then you say to the air "I'm from Crisis, is Clancey medically cleared?" - the fucking helping professions.
They said he was, but of course they never checked, and you find the guy is alive but cannot wake up and certainly can't engage in an assessment after his failed suicide attempt with alcohol and pills.
"Hey! psst! down here!", Ed looked down toward the foot of the bed and noticed that the man had an enormous big toe, and where its nail should have been there was what appeared to be a small human face, "you've got to help me, this guy's trying to kill me!"

Friday, August 6, 2010

Irritation Nation

I thought there was some calculus for combining minutes of REM sleep and milligrams of caffeine, but I've lost track of the whole damn equation. I can tell you this, I was irritated by a guy riding a bicycle and smoking a cigarette simultaneously, by the drug dealer in the parking lot of Store 24 (he said "you look familiar" - feeling me out, you know - I answered "I'm not), and by the humid night that locks this little city down like so many fireflies in a jar. You can go to the tent revival with the furious Pentacostals and listen to the man shout hoarsely in Spanish and in Tongues, or you can sit in a hot store front church in front of a fan, or you can stand in line at a club with tall shoes and a short skirt and an army of meatheads in black t-shirts and stupid facial hair, or you can be one of the many casualties of the drug game up and down this street sulking alone in a stairwell burnt by baking soda when you needed crack, or in with a couple of others getting ready to beat someone down for what's left of his SSDI check, or in front of me in an emergency room trying to explain away the fact that you smashed all the upstairs furniture, scared the crap out of your elderly mother and shouted at the police to get them all out of your house when there just wasn't anybody there. You've got some choices. What do you want to do? If you want my clinical opinion - RUN.


Tuesday, August 3, 2010

It's Not You, It's Me

I just checked my e-mail and found that Rob over at Six Sentences included one of my chunks in his most recent effort called Half A World Away. That was a cool surprise. I submitted "Singing Lesson" - about 800 words  - to decomP literary magazine tonight. I took out the links to You Tube videos, though I like having them in there if only it was a quicker transition from story to video and back again.

I'm semi-delirious after working 20 hour days for the last 7 days and nights. Should get myself some shut eye while it's quiet here. I'm at work now.

It’s Not You, It’s Me
by Glen Green

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to slander
Fairbanks and its people, most of whom are fiercely
independent, rugged, able, friendly, funny, hospitable
and colorful as all hell. "There's only two kinds of
people up here - people who wouldn't live anywhere
else and people who couldn't live anywhere else."

Winter lasts forever there and, at its peak, there's
three hours of twilight taking the place of the sun.
Just getting out of bed is a hero's journey, yet the
people there somehow laugh and play and work and
love and dance, and I'm telling you, some of those
smiles will thaw you all the way through. I found a
door there that opened upon a dark passage, and
when I "hellooed" in something "hellooed" right back,
and so I entered of my own free will. But I did have
scruples, and - just like the man said - because of
those, I would lead one confusing fucking life.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Singing Lesson

It was my twenty-first birthday, a block or two off Broadway, and I was drunk without the usual temptation to cut my own throat with broken glass. The sun was out, things looked good, something like magic was starting to work, and I had so far stayed out of its way. I walked past a little Japanese noodle place, just about empty in the late afternoon, except for a hard-luck man sitting at a piano singing his karaoke version of The Summer Wind. He had the look and feel of schizophrenia about him, lucid for now, and he sounded a lot like Sinatra to me. I went in, sat down, ordered an Orion beer, and applauded. The singer thanked the absent crowd and me, flipped me his Zippo, and winked.


"Thanks, you're beautiful"  he said, and I started to believe him. He seemed to have the run of the place, like maybe Mamasan let him sing when there was no one else around. He continued his Sinatra medley, and I noticed his overstuffed, weather-beaten backpack in the corner.

"When I was seventeen, it was a very good year.."

He looked at me when he sang and, no shit, I got goose bumps.

"It was a very good year, for small town girls, and soft summer nights..."

And now I was crying. My friends were back in one of the buy-me-drinkee-bars probably wondering what the hell happened to me, but I couldn't leave, so I ordered Santori whiskey and stayed.


During his break I awkwardly approached him, thanked him for the music, and gave him back his Zippo. He received it graciously - seemed kind of regal - like he was used to handling the adulation of toungue tied fans. I told him I was about to eat some noodles and asked if he'd allow me to get something for him. He ordered soup and tea. We ate at separate tables and did not speak. His break was measured and professional.

Returning to his microphone he said, "ladies and gentlemen, this beautiful kid is going to join me for a duet".

Singing in public was not something I did, except when running through the dusty hills of Camp Pendelton, but like I said - there was magic at work, and who was I too refuse? I joined the singer on his piano bench and paged through the book he handed me until I found "House of The Rising Sun". The microphone made me shy and my timing was off, but I got through it and wasn't too bothered by the presence of the couple who joined us in the place.

Like any good teacher, the singer wasn't going to let me get off easy.

"Not bad kid, but you've got to let it go. Don't sing from your mouth, sing from your tits!"

We did "King of The Road" next, and it felt pretty good and earned us a little applause.


One of my friends came in toward the end of the song, called me crazy and said he thought I'd run off to Tijuana. We ordered more drinks, another friend came in, and the place started to get busier. The singer, he kept doing his thing, and if you were just walking in and you didn't look too closely, you'd think he was the paid talent. Some time passed, the drinking continued - except for the singer, who never had anything stronger than tea - the lights dimmed into evening, and there was a soft vibe in the place. I still didn't feel like cutting my throat, or anyone else's, and I just let this magic happen like warm oil and sunshine.

The singer addressed the growing crowd with the same command he had over the invisible one.

 "I'm going to call my beautiful friend up here for another duet",  and the piano opened  "My Funny Valentine".

I want you to know what it felt like. It was real still and warm inside, and as we sunk into the softness of the song, I could swear there were beams of light coming out of me. I closed my eyes because I could feel the magic thing looking at me up close, and you never, never want to look it in the eyes.
"...you make me smile with me heart..."

Man, it was so quiet in there and that song felt like a part of me just flowing out... unhindered, unbroken.

"Each day is Valentine's Dayyy..."

Opening my eyes, I found an elderly woman had joined us and with her hand on my shoulder she sang this beautiful "la, la, la" finale into my microphone.

Applause - I saw the tables were almost full and people had come in from the sidewalk, I was disoriented.

The singer squeezed my arm and said "that's the one" with tears in his eyes, and in that moment I loved everything.


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