Sunday, July 21, 2013


I slide the CD in and let it blare: Arcade Fire, Bob Dylan, Cat Stevens, Dropkick Murphys, Regina Spektor. It's a lovely little mix tape, quirky and evocative, as befits the person who made it.

Nothing is perfect but this CD comes close. I can actually write to it. There is rhythm here that goes beyond the selected songs; the cadence of memory comes alive and I slip back to the time when it was given to me. I was bigger then, bigger and bolder. Back then my badass costume fit. Now it's a little tight in the ass, and I could use a little toning in my biceps.

I jot myself a reminder: Start working out. Maybe hot yoga? It's right under my last noted goal: Lay off the smack. I smile at that one, scratch it off the list. Even the most stubborn bastards know when it's time to say not just whoa, but no.

Writing (as opposed to typing) has been a chore for the past 15 months. Even having small hopes did not fully resurrect the writer I used to be. I'm not sure that guy even exists now. He may have died during the stroke, or even before, when I threw away decades worth of work. No matter if he's dead. All I can do is type on and evoke the muse's voice when I'm stuck. I know it's a cheat, but even the most innovative types sometimes rely on a bag of tricks. And this one works. Not only does it bring forth my voice; from the cheat comes an idea, a small, intriguing notion.

A great adventure is about to begin.

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