Just ask anyone who knows their's is ending in a few months. They'll tell you.
It's spring: Trees and people have sap coursing through their veins. I fall out of my bed in the mornings and there is daylight of which I'll never get tired. (At my funeral I want Bobby Womack singing, "Daylight Has Caught Me Up Again".)
Guess what I've been doing? Parallel parking. No seriously, I do math like a bad driver parks. Over and over and over again until I ram something into the space and the bumper in front of me and the bumper in back of me be damned. Aaaargh. In about a month It Will All Be Over. Got a take home to do today and my goal is to be finished with it before the sun sets or before Cuthbert sues me for loss of marital companionship or some such phrase one uses in divorce.
Cuthbert, who can be the Pol Pot of husbands, bought me a gorgeous turntable. A Stanton. And for you non-audionuts out there, that's a big deal. (The Maserati of record players.) Not only did he purchase it, he built me new shelves to hold it and still with the electric drill in his hands waited anxiously while I put an 33 rpm on. Well, snow fell. Birds nested on his scalp and his eyelashes grew while I went on with my usual business listening to WNYC and shaking my shoe at the speakers. Cuthbert was perplexed. Then he was frustrated and then he was incandescently mad at me for ignoring his gift.
After cleaning the spit, stomach contents and teeth off my torso I broke out David Bromberg's Demon in Disguise and played it for the first time in 30 years. And, just as I feared, it broke my goddamn heart. As has every album I've played on my beautiful Stanton ever since. That's my past I'm listening to: My youth, my hope, my loves and my future ahead of me.
And here we all are, Dear Reader. Here we all are. In spring, the season of renewal, rebirth, hope everlasting. This is all a masked soliloquy for a grief that I'm holding at bay as best I can. Not ready to talk to it directly, so I walk around the block, looking into shop windows, checking my watch.
It's spring: Trees and people have sap coursing through their veins. I fall out of my bed in the mornings and there is daylight of which I'll never get tired. (At my funeral I want Bobby Womack singing, "Daylight Has Caught Me Up Again".)
Guess what I've been doing? Parallel parking. No seriously, I do math like a bad driver parks. Over and over and over again until I ram something into the space and the bumper in front of me and the bumper in back of me be damned. Aaaargh. In about a month It Will All Be Over. Got a take home to do today and my goal is to be finished with it before the sun sets or before Cuthbert sues me for loss of marital companionship or some such phrase one uses in divorce.
Cuthbert, who can be the Pol Pot of husbands, bought me a gorgeous turntable. A Stanton. And for you non-audionuts out there, that's a big deal. (The Maserati of record players.) Not only did he purchase it, he built me new shelves to hold it and still with the electric drill in his hands waited anxiously while I put an 33 rpm on. Well, snow fell. Birds nested on his scalp and his eyelashes grew while I went on with my usual business listening to WNYC and shaking my shoe at the speakers. Cuthbert was perplexed. Then he was frustrated and then he was incandescently mad at me for ignoring his gift.
After cleaning the spit, stomach contents and teeth off my torso I broke out David Bromberg's Demon in Disguise and played it for the first time in 30 years. And, just as I feared, it broke my goddamn heart. As has every album I've played on my beautiful Stanton ever since. That's my past I'm listening to: My youth, my hope, my loves and my future ahead of me.
And here we all are, Dear Reader. Here we all are. In spring, the season of renewal, rebirth, hope everlasting. This is all a masked soliloquy for a grief that I'm holding at bay as best I can. Not ready to talk to it directly, so I walk around the block, looking into shop windows, checking my watch.
You are such a damned good writer!!! I want more.
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