Project Vignette

Hey folks!

  Well, it's time to start blogging again.  Have you ever had that feeling where you cared much more about other things, but one "insignificant" item kept raising it's hand from the back of the class?  You know how it goes - you try to answer it once, but then it has another question, leaning it's arm on it's other hand for support.  "I'm not going anywhere." 

  For me, that's writing.  As a musician, writing is a support for songwriting.  I keep sitting down to write songs, and these other things keep popping up.  Untamed, meandering as the grapevines on the fence by the road, and often completely goofy, these "vignettes" won't leave me alone.  So, here you go, stories.  Here's your home.  I hope you guys enjoy 'em.  I don't know where they're coming from, but boy are they insistent. 

Flitting

Zoom, zip, twist.  He flits along, catching the morning sun with his buttery butterfly wings, as elusive as a settled feeling on a bad day.  He zooms around the corner of the house, doubtlessly alighting on a big block of letters people like to pose with, but instead of LOVE, it says “Where did the summer go?”  

Old Light

A shimmer and a dance, the wind holds out it’s hand, and the trees say “sure, I’d love to”, and off they go, nimbly across the floor, scattering sparkles of sunlight that strikes my drowsy eye.  Like a hot air balloon sneaking off towards where it yearns, silently casting off it’s ropes and floating skyward, so too my gaze drifts up into the distance, and my mind floats freely. It’s a sepia sky, gazing down on starched dresses and poses for the camera, hands firmly at sides, the Past blown in on a summer breeze.  You wonder what it was like, and if they could have known how it would turn out, and what they would have done differently. If I could, would I stroll beside myself enjoying a popsicle in the old neighborhood, or perhaps stop to help my grandma fix her ‘32 Chevy with the loose battery cable in 50’s Hartford? What would I say besides “you’re welcome, ma’am”?  With a start, I’m back. Who was that sitting beside me for coffee? There’s nobody there - just the ancient light from the sun, turning this sky Sepia.  

Tick Tock

Summer has it’s first gray hair.  It always happens, sooner, or, later in the case of today’s August morning.  I was once on a date, and this August day happened there, too. Suddenly, the watch on my wrist tapped my shoulder and said “hey buddy, all good things must come to an end, so let me cut in here.”  The cicadas sing like there’s tomorrow, but you know they’ll be winding down before too long. That hairline crack blows in on the breeze, ninety degrees today but start splitting wood. I obey the order, kachunk in the early morning, my t-shirt asking “are you sure about this, buddy?” as it wipes it’s brow.  It’s easy to write off the red leaves on the gum tree as drought-related as the forest gears up for a busy day, but if you listen close, you can hear it. Tick tock.