Doing the Impossible

I Live
with a Bear.
Bear is a dog.
Gone it.
The other dog. The really cool one.
She could herd cows. Loud.
I was sure she'd be trampled, but for her twas no prob.
And she fed herself. Not in the human way, not the suburban way I mean.
She killed rabbits
and ate road-kill
and the occasional fried turkey wing.
Bonzenal.

I dug a hole in the backyard in February and laid her in there.
I was worried she wasn't really dead, but the rigor mortis was pretty much of a
giveaway.

I like the urban dictionary, but I don't consult it much.
I like the playing of guitars, but not often.
I approve of reading, but when?
I like a big stage and lights. They make me smile.
I've been on and off those stages since I was about 20.
40 years. Almost impossible really, since I am no
Mark OConnor or Yoyo man nor a natalie mcmistress, nor even
Blevans or other jazz giant.
I'm just a little guy who feels the music and carries a work ethic so heavy
it weighs me down in my sleep.
I awake working.
And recently I find I enjoy practicing.
It is a relief from the unbelievable insanity that is my life.
The intense love of several other humans.
One claims she's an alien, but that's obvious.
Smart Martian.
Another seems to love me so much she can't stop crying. And her airport was broken. (She says its grief, but there is no such thing as grief -- euphemism for regret)
I love everybody I know. Indiscriminate. And when my remark "Sustaining anger takes so much effort I would rather just forgive..." is met with silence, I worry, and forgive.

Lest I come off saintly or daily lamish: None of it is working, while it all works.
Luck? Good luck. Bad luck. It is all luck.

And I will please all the people all the time, and I will love all my loved ones and it is impossible. And there's always tomorrow. Til there isn't.

fool that I was

is likely the fool that I am. Though I feel wise today. Oddly I am certain I will forget today.
A Thursday? AH, I had a rehearsal. At the church. The christian soldiers were marching marching, quietly to the bathrooms. No, that was on Sunday Sunday. Monday, that's a day. I often rehearse with a band. Great band really. "the creative opportunity." "the creative thing" is what people miss when they depart. I do the best I can. Honestly.
But I'm paranoid. Classic paranoid. That's why no posts for awhile. Paranoia is boring kids.
1. They are all out to get me.
2. They are all crazy.
3. The outcome is unpredictable and will not be to my liking.

I have a young Facebook (or is it FaceSpace?) friend whose little motto talks about kissing a lot.
And kissing well. An easy well in which to fall. I kissed this friend once, and I think it startled her. Her neck was kinda sweaty. Which I ordinarily like, but she's such a young thing, and I am not. She's a friend of friends. And I am not.

Friends. Yes. Always liked Quakers. For years, I have been one. It's the paranoia.
Understandable, given the shifting sands, waves of salty water, and onslaught of telephone messages requiring response. I tried really hard in about 1999, and again in 2002. I believed the outcome would be mainly good, acceptable, understandable. I might get some disease and die, but probably not, and I was strong and could handle shit. Fool that I was.