Memory plus time equals semi-fiction. The trees fell. The wood was stacked. The dreams are my own.
We do not often speak of the Wall, of leg cramps, hunger, rain, or hills in reverent tones. In each of us lives a desire to be challenged, to keep on, to stay in when the road gets hard.
I drove by an old wooden house backed into a rain wet piney wooded hillside. I noticed it had no roof. Just like another place from another time.
I woke up the other day to Frank Sinatra singing “Learning The Blues” on my iPod alarm. In the wrinkle between sleep and waking I remembered the day he died. I got up and wrote it down.