This will end in tears

Snow is a blanket on the world, and my happiness.  It covers the trees and my ambition. The winter weighs heavy on my emotions like the blankets on my bed that try to keep me  inert,  still,  and lifeless under cover. I hibernate and dream of spring.

When I was growing up and going to college in Western and Central Pennsylvania, it was not uncommon to see railroad boxcars occasionally dotting the landscape. I'm not talking about the little red caboose that might sit at an old, defunct railroad terminal in some small town. I'm talking about the big rectangular box cars, usually wooden, with the big sliding doors, sitting on the old rusted frame with metal wheels. And they weren't sitting on some abandoned rail line. Most of the time they were in a field, or a gully along a stream bed, or simply in the yard of some farmhouse. I always thought about "The Boxcar Children" series of books that I read as a child from my elementary school library whenever I would pass one. Another thing that was talked about quite a bit in movies and in the classroom when I was young was the hobo movement. Another societal group living, even temporarily, in boxcars. I used to fantasize about running away and traveling the country as

We have a conservatory in Pittsburgh called Phipps Conservatory. It's a large glass structure from the late 1800s. It has around a dozen indoor rooms, each with a theme: palm court, fern room, desert room, tropical room, edible plant room, etc. They do seasonal shows with a variety of themes. I've been a member for many years now and I thoroughly enjoy the serenity and the beauty year round. The outdoor gardens are lovely in the warmer months, and there are always ample photographic opportunities.  That's all. You should visit if you are every in town. 

There was a time after college where I lived in an efficiency apartment in a historic building from around 1900. It had a beautiful facade and an open lobby with a visible staircase and one, narrow elevator. The elevator had an old diamond pattern sliding door that you had to manually open and close. The elevator was very slow - about as slow as taking the stairs. It vibrated enough that it would often cause that gate to open a bit, causing the elevator to stop. You learned to hold a foot against the gate after it was jarred loose and stopped you between floors a few times. The halls were narrow, as were the doors. It has steam heat and radiators that would knock loudly, and on cold nights the regulator valve would hiss like an angry snake or dissatisfied theater goer all night long. The single pane, metal sash, casement windows radiated cold in the winter and let bugs in during the summer due to a lack of screens. The single room had a tiny four burner stove with an oven too small for

A welcomed respite  From all the pressures of life  A video game Controlling a life Knowing there is a save point Full of adventures Earning achievements Performing heroic acts And fulfilling quests Doing the dishes Doesn't have the same appeal As digital fun

When I was about four years old my divorced mother and I lived in a subsidized apartment complex. There were a bunch of identical three story buildings, each with about a dozen units inside. They were ugly, dark red brick buildings floating in a sea of a blacktop parking lots that surrounded them.  I went walking around the complex one particularly cold Sunday in January, the week before that brought a lot of snow, and someone has made a snowman. The end of the week was sunny and warmer, and most of the snow had melted. The snowman has suffered. He was maybe half of his original size. But the previous night had been very cold so the melting snowman had turned into a block of ice.  The makers had used some sort of faux jewels for eyes, a carrot for a nose, and has wrapped a scarf around his neck. The shiny red eyes and most of the carrot were entombed in the almost transparent head. The eyes glittered in the sun, a tantalizing prize for a young boy. I tried to kick the snowman over to c

Random thoughts: Writing every day is not difficult, exactly, but making/finding time is difficult. I think that I need to set an alarm or reminder or something. I'm always doing it just before bed.  Lawsuits suck and the only people who consistently benefit are the lawyers.  I miss having cats. 

Hey, Daddy, look! Dragons are real! Sorry, your hands won't grow back. His love was what killed her.  Fantasy is the balm for reality. The paths diverged. He chose poorly. The parachute failed to open. Again. His nights were filled with hunting. She ran right off the edge.

Through my highschool and college years I dated several women who were singers. I would attend their performances. I would drive them to various rehearsals. I would envy their talent as my singing voice would send small animals and children scurrying for shelter. But despite my most heartfelt pleas, these woman would never sing for me. No private serenades. No individual concerts. No breathy ballad as foreplay. My caged birds never sang for me. Maybe they always felt free. Free enough to always leave me with an empty cage and a quiet room. 

Paint covers a multitude of sins.  So they say.  I wonder how many gallons it would take to camouflage my past actions. To hide my previous dalliances.  To inter my old transgressions.  Would the impressions remain with indistinct edges when the light hits them in just the right way?  Better to close the door and call the room a closet. Then it can fill with skeletons instead.

"I've never seen Spandau Ballet," she says. "Is that like the Nutcracker?"  Thomas shakes his head. What was he doing with such a young woman? Was she too young for him, or was he simply too old? The reality of being a sugar daddy was not matching up with his fantasies.  Jemma was a sophomore at a local college and he was a 47 year old divorcee working in tech. It wasn't the first time that Thomas had made some reference that was a generation too late for Jemma to understand. 

I hear your thoughts and they become me. I see your looks and they define me. I feel your actions and they mold me. Am I me or am I your definition of me, Your impressions of me, Your reactions to me? Why did I live so long trying to be what you wanted me to be?  Like a snake I shed the skin of your expectations, impressions, and desires.  I emerge shiny with clear eyes and a hunger.  Hopefully I don't feed myself upon your validation this time around.

There are times when I notice that my shoulders are pulled up towards my ears. That my back is tight. That my lips are pursed and my eyes are squinted. I didn't feel the tension slowly building. The stress increasing. The pressures of life and work tightening my muscles like rubber bands full of potential energy just before breaking.  Suddenly being aware of your body like that is a weird sensation. Almost like being sick. When your body is functioning normally you don't think about or even feel it. When you are tense or sick or in pain you are aware of every movement, every sensation, and suddenly your body has density and mass that you can feel and with which you need to contend.  Breathe in. Hold. Think about your shoulders melting away from your ears. Feel the muscles relax and your shoulders slump. Exhale. Repeat while concentrating on your face. Feel you features flatten. Repeat while concentrating on your back and either sit up straight or drop your shoulders towards you

Where we come from is not who we are. Where we've been is not who we are. What we have is not who we are. Who we are is what we do. 

I let the hot water wash over me. It washes away the grime. It washes away the blood. It washes away the smell. I let the hot water wash over me. It eases the tension in my muscles. It eases the anxiety in my chest. It eases the pressure of the thoughts in my head.  I let the hot water wash over me. It doesn't wash away the sin. It doesn't ease the weight in my heart. It doesn't calm my troubled mind. I let the hot water wash over me, but still feel unclean. 

I'm shedding hobbies as I age, and not accumulating enough to replace them. Diminishing returns lived out.  Rock collecting. Stamp collecting. Fossil hunting. Racquetball. Web design. Model photography. It seems like the only hobbies that I am accumulating of late are not by choice.  Lawn and garden maintenance. House renovations. Laundry folding. Dishwashing. Writing emails. A lugubrious list indeed.  Am I slowly shedding my skin? Am I molting. Am I transforming into something new and glorious? I suppose that only time will tell. 

A long weekend before winter starts in earnest means cooking and stockpiling food for the coming cold. Thirteen quarts of chili and sixteen quarts of Thai coconut curry chicken soup are now chilling in my chest freezer in the basement.  I'm not looking forward to the cold, but I am looking forward to delicious, easy to prepare meals in the future 

Another Saturday The first of the year Egg sandwiches and hot tea Smokey cheddar and sourdough Cream and sugar and cinnamon  My weekends are delicious and aromatic All beginnings are infused with expectations and hopes and desires  I just hope this year's journey is more like my weekends and less like my weekdays.