83,168 Lies We Tell Ourselves

Sometimes I subconsciously listen for the hiss of a cassette tape or the sound of the needle on a record knowing that it is not really coming, but half expecting it anyway.

The click of the button is replaced by the click of the mouse but that doesn’t stop the music from filling my ears or the memories from coming.

“You won’t want me anymore. Men don’t want old women in their fifties.”

I don’t want to tell you how long ago that was but I’ll readily admit that 50 no longer sounds so old to me.

Hell, it doesn’t always look so old either which I suppose means some of you ought to give thanks for good genes.

The music moves to the next song and the memories follow and flow through the river of dreams pass the mountains of what might be and the desert of what was.

83,168 Lies We Tell Ourselves

Jet lagged, cranky and extra argumentative our hero writes about himself in the third person and tells you he has avoided people today because part of him felt like wading into the lollipop land crowd so that he could beat upon their ignorant heads with facts.

And just when he figures he might as well blow off steam that wasn’t removed via exercise two things happen.

  1. His daughter tells him he is old because he is almost 50. This makes him laugh, especially given his earlier thoughts.
  2. A new song fills the empty space between his ears and something about that makes sense.

Neither one of these things makes him forget who he is irritated with and why, but it does make him feel less irritated and that is enough….more or less.

More or less meaning that today he is irked by how unfair some things are.

Most of the time he doesn’t get caught up in the waste of energy that comes with crying about why some people never get what is coming to them while others get more crap than they deserve.

Life is funny that way.

It reminds him of a relationship. A crazy ring of fire, never know whether to walk or skip across the line that once was.

He mulls over writing more because there is so much to be said and chooses to be silent here…for now.


Life has cranked up the pressure a 120 percent and I am certain there is a celestial chorus singing Knockin’ On Heavens Door.

I am juggling chainsaws and torches while dancing around a fire surrounded by cans of gasoline. One slip and I’ll be dancing in the damn fire…again.

Wouldn’t be the first time and it won’t be the last but I am trying to keep from playing firewalker now.

Trying to keep from being sucked into the malestrom and having to fight the crazy creatures within as well as without.

Posted one of those Facebook stories using a baby picture thinking maybe there is some good Juju tied up in it that I can pull from, but not certain.

Can’t hurt to try and I am willing to take that chance.

Brother Pablo

If Brother Pablo were here I would raise a glass with him and share stories that I choose not to write about here.

I’d tell him about how I thought about asking Scooby to help me solve me one of the great mysteries of my life and he’d give me a knowing smile.

Brother Pablo would share some words and I’d nod my my head and it wouldn’t matter if he chose to speak in English or Spanish because I’d understand either.

And when he asked for an explanation I would tell him the chupacabra is responsible for my situation and he’d recognize all I said.

He’d understand and tell me that some people pretend not to because it is easier to be like that and we’d raise another glass.

“The fire it burns and only a few are permitted to be blessed by its touch, allowed to have their innocence burned away for the chance to get to that next place.”

That celestial orchestra would start to play and I’d climb into a chariot that soared into the heavens in search of Elijah the prophet knowing that my actions were unforgiveable and unstoppable.

Sometimes you race with the moon because there are no choices and the only way to get to the other side is through.

Because the chain around our ankles cannot be pulled off, it can only be broken by yanking upon it with the kind of force that cannot be generated any other way.

To do less or different is to be diminished and that cannot be.

We must strive to reach the next level or accept a living death.

(Visited 12 times, 1 visits today)


Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Please enter an e-mail address

You may also like