Lobster Gobble- (an attempt to write about light.) ~ Dedicated to my loved ones, writers, old friends, new friends, family and life.
Archive for November, 2007
I am fighting to put myself back together again. I made mistakes. I look in the mirror and feel shame. If you had any part of me, please forgive me for I am not well. I called you names. I hated myself in every shade but, morning comes in light, and somehow, I keep moving on. If there is anything to say or do, I will do it for you, for me. I loved where there was only emptiness; I screamed into the abyss for sanctuary and found myself even more isolated and alone. I died. I am my brother, my father, my sister, my mother and now, it is morning and I must invite in the truth. If there is any other way, I wish I knew. I am a child.
Morning brings in the light. If there is any other way, I wish I knew. My surrender is this: These words. My love. My death. My hope. My mess.
I love you, my morning light; thank you for bringing me back home.
My drive to work is paved by vineyards, long sweeping farmland sectioned by rows of grapes, mostly made up of Cabernet, Merlot and Chardonnay blocks. My eyes are puffy from too many tears shed last night but this view always offers comfort. I wonder if the people who live at these wineries have porches. The grapes seem as good a view as any from the highway so it must be a good view from a porch. One of my best friends died a few years ago of heart failure but, in my mind, he is still alive on a porch. He is still on that porch today, smoking Kool cigarettes. And I am still stealing smokes from him and I am twelve and my girlfriend Julie and I go to puff-puff at the public stairs; we always wish he would actually smoke a cool kind of cig like Camels or Parliaments, anything but menthol Kools.
His name is Ted and he has a long beard and funny, wire rimmed glasses and is my mother’s boyfriend and our friend or so he asks my brother and I to refer to him as. I like him and he is sort of odd and doesn’t think like most people. The best of times are found on a grey porch in Southeast Portland in two lawn chairs with a small table holding the ashtray in between us. We watch life pass us by and sip strong coffee and giggle at people marveling at the oversized monkey-puzzle tree in front of our house. It’s not a vineyard but it’s just as magical.
I pull into the long driveway up to the winery, Crazy Grapes. Continue reading ‘Porch Sitting’