“They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.”
~ Gordon Lightfoot, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”

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The Wreck of the SS Freudian Slip

It was oft whispered in the ports that dared allow them harbor, that the rag-tag coterie was doomed, being as they were steered by the obvious runt of the litter. Still, the winds generously billowed the sails full, the tides of wet goddesses rocked and cradled their passage, and there was progress toward some manner of destination, even if none were sure where such a journey might end. Fortune, of course, never leans too far too long in any one direction, but the idle comfort of a string of luck led them like children toward a sense of entitlement that the fates could not resist rolling against them.

The endless days of sun-beamed arcs bouncing off the rolling waves eventually led to sea blindness and a peculiar madness of false vision began to infect the crew. The only sanity that clung between the margins of the voyage came when the moon escorted the stars across the velvet midnight, blocking out the charlatan mirages that danced like ghosts on the spray. The artful dodgers of the bevy recognized the need to dispel the mounting tension, and trespassed down into the hold, returning with tapped casks of rum, whiskey, amontillado — all the others could hope to distract from the tedious delirium of the every day drudge.

No one was certain who heard the first lilting note, but it was not long until they were all awash in awe and wonder.

It was the Siren; her call vibrated across the distance like the kiss of a forgotten lover, passion-trapped within a bottle and finally able to wrest the cork from her stained glass prison bars. She called to them in ways none had ever heard, nor could they put words to all she inspired as they huddled against the masts and rigging, straining for some vision, some shadow that might quench the thirsts no spirits could sate. Secret and distant, she denied them, calling from the inky dark, and from the salty air itself, taunting and luring, drawing them closer. Closer. Closer.

When she tired, or perhaps when the Mistress moon merely tricked her back into her bottle, the troubadour replaced her honey-soaked verses with the crafty skills and pleasures of his trade. Familiar chanteys and rarely-heard canticles wove a patchwork spell, stitched from the same siren cloth which swaddled the lot of them into the stupors of drunken revelry. Unable to contain the need to catch the power of the rattle and hum, some dove into the unforgiving waters, arm over arm, flailing toward the echos that meshed, interlaced, plaited together like the sinuous coils of raw hemp that flanked the decks.

Before long, the very planks and rigging seemed to rein themselves toward the unknown cove of haunted songs.

The water-logged pages of the journal end there, leaving us to merely speculate about the fate of the SS Freudian Slip. Some say she made a cold, early grave of the briny floor at the edges of the world. Others spin wild tales of a treasure cove where the ancient faces of kings carved in stone and brightly painted totems hold court amid a lush and living landscape. But the story traded most often over mugs of foamy-headed ales casts the crew as the enchanted captives of a pair of pirate specter bards, tethered to the wreckage and rocks that serve as brig and stage; entangled forever by roots and tendrils none can sever.

Some Thursday nights, when the unsuspecting pass too close to those waves and rocks, the echos spill out over still waters, and just as twilight coaxes the horizon to accept the weight of the sunset back within its shimmering embrace, comes the intoxicating lullaby of Her.

And if you stand upon the deck long enough, the blanket of night will wash brilliant with color as He follows, melting the wick into the depths of the wax and daring those who hear to lean just a little closer for one more song.

“To write what is worth publishing, to find honest people to publish it, and get sensible people to read it, are the three great difficulties in being an author.” ~ Charles Caleb Colton

Watch to the end, or miss it.

“If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.” ~ Anais Nin

I think my meat has finally figured out a way to make getting sick work for me. Fevers always seem to lend me little hints to help navigate around the barricades. I’m not sure if they provide clarity of a sort, or just enough fog to cloud the enemies in my own mind, but the lock finally broke. Maybe being sick just triggers some sort of inner survival mechanism to find the path of least resistance. Whatever the cause, I can’t say I’m entirely proud of the final effort, but it touches the edges of what I want to say in a way I roughly want to say it. Having made it through the desert, I’m just glad to be drinking again and maybe it will lead to more worthy avenues now that the gridlock is gone.

January To Lament

Today was better than yesterday, which was better than the day before
I even made it out of bed, almost made it to the door
It’s all getting easier, but I kind of wish it wasn’t
Seems my head keeps healing, even when my heart doesn’t

I’ve still got all the books you made me read
Lined up all around my bed
Obscure science fiction and cheesy detective stories
About impossible women and improbable places
Told by men who’ll never understand them
It’s not the stuff that makes me miss you
But these bric-a-brac reminders of
Incomplete conversations
Make January so much colder

If memory serves, then why do we touch
And reach
And need
And feel for more
If memory serves then why do we rush
And hide
And lie
And steal for more
If memory serves then these few years will have to do
Because whatever memory serves, it’s all I’ve left of you

Before the pieces can start to fit, before the puzzle can return to norm
I have to understand the Winter of it, I have to give the darkness form
Because you left behind these random thoughts scribbled on the bathroom walls
And I can’t just keep painting over all the graffiti covered stalls

I’ve still got all this junk you sent me
Scattered all around the house
Strange little gadgets and expensive shiny toys
All moving parts and intricate endgames
For those of us that never learned to put away our childish things
It’s not the stuff that makes me miss you
But these bric-a-brac reminders of
Incomplete conversations
Make January so much colder

If memory servers, then why do we touch
And reach
And need
And feel for more
If memory serves then why do we rush
And hide
And lie
And steal for more
If memory serves then these few years will have to do
Because whatever memory serves, it’s all I’ve left of you

It’s the conversations we don’t get to finish
That make January so much colder

“When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely.” ~ Truman Capote

I have always written my way out of darkness before. It’s not as though I find my writing to be of any noble caliber. Any writer of any worth should be their own worst critic. I’ve written things I’m not ashamed of, and things I’ve been happy to share with others, even proud to share on occasion. But I also know I haven’t written the things I’d like to have written the way I’d like to have written them. I don’t know if that’s a lack of talent or discipline or focus, or if my time simply hasn’t come yet. Unlike athletics and other gifts, words are something you can come to late in life and still get right. My best work may yet be before me. At least that’s what I hope.

It’s unclear to me how writing translates to other arts and how a writer translates to other artists. I don’t know if the process of the purge is the same for a painter or a coder or a tuba player as it is for me. I’ve known lots of people who call themselves artists, but few were and I don’t often poke around in the heads of other creative people to try and glean from them. To me, asking another artist how they incorporate pain or loss into their work is like asking a celebrity for an autograph — it would say a lot more about what an ass I am and probably end up of little value. The problem with being an artist is that someone is always trying to take something away from you. Not out of malice or even jealousy (although there are certainly those types). Mostly, people are just hungry and those of us who create something out of nothing have the ability to feed ourselves in a way the consumer-only variety of humans doesn’t get. Art feeds, but the problem is that you don’t get to choose the meal, and it can be poison on a stick when it wants to be. And, each time someone takes something from you, it’s a little harder to find the way back. You become a little more hungry yourself. Or maybe that’s just me and my inability to deal with the rest of the human condition, but I suspect not. I don’t know a single creative person that wouldn’t welcome a little more isolation in their life. A few days to shut the door, turn off the world and be alone with their own process. Life gets in the way, even as it inspires and offers up the pains and sacrifices we all seem to need.

Still, I can’t write my way out of this loss. Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I’m just whiny. Everything seems contrived, unworthy — trite. Whatever the old trick was to twist the pain into product — I can’t get a handle on it. I want to do right by what I feel. If there was anything in me capable, it seems like it should have written its way out. Instead there is only the hunger. Maybe I’m being impatient. Or maybe I just miss my friend.

I want to write something like this and I’m pissed off that I can’t:

…but still the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they are gone…

“The Christmas we get, we deserve” ~ Greg Lake

This time of year always makes me feel like my grandmother’s ghost is sitting over my shoulder. She left me no end of happy memories to live over in my dreams. It’s amazing how something so long ago can still wash over me completely. I wake up to the scent of her and her home.

I wonder lately if the complexity and clarity of my dreams is part of the reason I have no problem embracing a virtual lifestyle.

Mostly, I think I just miss her.

I Dreamed Of Christmas

I dreamed that I woke up
To find you baking
Apple spice and cinnamon
Red licorice smiles on gingerbread
Candy canes and Santa heads
I dreamed of Christmas, then

Orange-scented fingertips
Open scissors down curling ribbons
Sticky bows and to-from tags
Wrapping paper taped and folded
Sparking silver, glinting golden
I dreamed of Christmas, then

Cozy sweaters, cold red cheeks
Twinkling lights that bright the dark
Wreaths and trees exhaling pine
Garland boughs all swag and swing
Cidered throats warmed up to sing
I dreamed of Christmas, then

I dreamed that I woke up
To find you making
Coffee long before the dawn
A quiet moment in a long, loud day
And before it passed away
I dreamed of Christmas, yesterday

Your hands were always steady
When you handed me glass ornaments on metal hooks
I don’t think they ever shook

I dreamed that I wake up
To find you
And all the things we used to do
I dream about your eyes
And about your laughter
I still dream of Christmas
I still dream of you