Thursday, October 02, 2014


A world of possibilities — but not really. That kind of starry-eyed thinking is for the poets who sigh and wish. I write with a gimlet — the hole puncher, not the drink — and even though I'm a hope(ful)less romantic I'm too cynical to cling to all things possible.

Probable? Now there's another story. I'm down with what's likely to happen, especially when I see it coming. It's all about watching waves and figuring out where they're going to break, and being there when they do so I can get wet, arms outstretched to enjoy their power as they surge through my body.

You can't do that by simply wanting and thinking maybe, you know, just maybe. That's a sucker's game. It's staying on the shore with shiny hopes for ridiculous things, the never-was and the might-have-been. If I think about them long enough I can almost convince myself that they could happen.

Sometimes I let myself pretend with possibilities. I go off in a brown study and remember where pictures used to hang on walls and tell myself that all I have to do or be is this or that and the pictures will go back where they belong and everything will be all right. I won't have to stare at the pale patches anymore.

Sometimes I do that, sure. Especially when I sigh and let the stars stare down from an October sky.

But soon enough the moment runs out. I tuck the hope away and put on the mask with the smirk that says "you've got to be kidding." Yeah, anything is possible in Dreamland. But we're in Wide Awake Country now, Ace, and here comes a wave. Sweet Jesus, she's a beaut; we're probably going to get drenched. It'll be great. Trust me.

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