Dream Fiction no. 6: The Janky Pontiac & the Soaked Tuxedo

           

When Phil and Jennie’s big day’d arrived, my anxiety had reached a pinnacle that likely rivaled their excitement. Their private ceremony, now six weeks in the rearview, along with its 25-person guest list, had carried the energy back to the grind with everyone, but had never waned. Not even, or so it seemed, when it came to me living in their newlywed space for the duration.

            The three of us had managed to avoid toe-stepping in Phil and I’s old East Fourth Avenue pad, but I’d only wound up staying there by accident: car troubles, coupled with their wild generosity, had landed me back in my old college bedroom. The time had come, though, for the party to happen, for my exit to springboard them into their real life of marital bliss.

            There was, of course, the matter of my ’88 LeMans, and whether or not the suffocated-by-faulty-exhaust engine would be able to get me from the San Juans back to the Front Range. The brakes still had enough life in them to get me down the mountain passes; summiting them, though, was a different story.

            At least the heat and the stereo still worked.

One Thousand Gratitudes, Part XXXIX: 50-26

A strange thing occurred in the final run of this series: I finished writing it and then didn't have time to edit the last two pieces and get them posted.

Guess that's how it goes, though.

Anyway, here's the second to last and the last will follow right after it.

Thank you for reading.

One Thousand Gratitudes, Part XXX: 275-251

Penned this shorty over fourth-of-July weekend down at the lake.

It, like some of the finer things in life, are simple.

Thanks for reading.

One Thousand Gratitudes, Part XXI: 500-476

I've had it suggested to me that my writing is sometimes too personal.

Another person told me that my stuff was sometimes, "T.M.I."

I don't want to sound like an asshole when I say this, but I don't know another way to write. If, at the end of the day, the only thing I can say about my writing suggests something in the way of truth and honesty, then I will feel as though I have succeeded.

I don't think that a writer can call him or her self a writer if he or she doesn't write from the heart.

I do, and I hope that those that think they love me recognize that.

I also hope they recognize that life -- the inside shit, the nuts and grains of the mind's and the soul's inner workings -- represent a body of water.

You're always susceptible to the weather, to the storms, and to the calms.

You are what you are; you feel what you feel.

Life is real. It's joyful. It's hard. It's a mixed bag.

Every day I recognize -- in different and fleeting moments -- that there are things about myself and my life I wish I could change and then I remember that I'm thankful for who I am, what I've been, and what I will become. Neither feeling cancels the other. They're just there.