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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
 Posted - 03/24/2019 : 19:30:00
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| "What do you think about sleep?" he says. "It's restorative," she says. "Okay," he says. "Try to remember the pictures in your head before your consciousness switches off." He's talking about hypnogogia. Alpha and theta waves. The mystery in free-fall. "...flashes of other past or future memories there. A bridge... A connection." "Too big to think about," she says. "No, listen..." he says, "it's like remembering you can fly in your dreams when you're in trouble. You can do that now." "Not always," she says. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 03/24/2019 : 19:34:28
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| San Elijo. "Write me a letter," he says, "...everyday. I'll read them when I get back. Later he stares at the pages unblinking. Nights in REM time. Stars in their hair. The couple in the souvenir globe dancing. Beyond the track crickets warm their wings for music. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 03/24/2019 : 19:43:58
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| "...let's go where we're gonna go seein' so much..." Cherry blossoms in Balboa Park. Floating lotus in the reflecting pond. Straight to Blick with the colors still wet in his head. The open markets on India. "Gypsy food. Those little incense cones in the shop that smells so good. Trinket stuff, honey..." Paper cups of orange ice and Campari. Bread hot in the bag to cross the bridge. Coronado's wide flower boulevards. Fair light on the dream-sheened ocean. Sand-blown road by the Hotel Del. His penchant to be close to water. Apricot clouds. Threads of frayed silver alive with light the last hour. "An awning city," he says. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 03/25/2019 : 23:11:56
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Desert, Southern California, 1970... With two lovely Israeli ex-military women. I figured I was either going to get lucky or killed.... We were tripping in a Mustang at 100mph and 100 degrees...
I did not get killed. |
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Jonmark
Windchimer
USA
1791 Posts |
Posted - 03/27/2019 : 18:51:14
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quote:
Originally posted by buckman
I did not get killed.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 04/03/2019 : 16:05:29
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| "Nothin' good ever comes outta too much," he says, "'less you're talkin' about..." and he tilts his face up to the forever light leaking through the sky. "What's here, lady..." he says, "...is everything. An' it don't have nothin' to do with goin' to the bank. Jus' keep thinkin' you're safe behind your sunglasses." His eyes... The long fall there. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 04/05/2019 : 17:55:05
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Rev Buckman has taken a short leave - Of his sanity.
Yes, again.
So, while he cannot deliver the touching little
sermonettes we are so fond of, we thought we'd bring you some of the Rev's favorite quotes from around the world that he collects and uses occasionally in his talks with himself.:
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.
Call on God, but row away from the rocks.
The church is near, but the way is icy.
The tavern is far, but I will walk carefully.
When love is not madness, it is not love.
Don't speak unless you can improve on the silence.
Don't think there are no crocodiles because the water is calm.
We must learn our limits. We are all something,
but none of us are everything.
When one shuts one eye, one does not hear everything.
Fear less, hope more, Eat less, chew more,
Whine less, breathe more, Talk less, say more, Hate less, love more, And all good things will be yours.
It is good to know the truth,
but it is better to speak of palm trees...
~*~
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 04/09/2019 : 18:00:04
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| Red Vines and tequila. "To the dinosaurs," he says, and touches her glass. "In Dublin's fair city..." she says. "When I was a child. My father singing to put me to sleep. Later a photographer in the Village playing Chris Conner through every shoot. When Sunny Gets Blue. And, Most Of All I Miss You So." He's rocking in the dark in a Spring-heavy fog. The deck still too cold to go barefoot. "Recorded by The Cats and the Fiddle," he says. "First song I learned. Go on... Keep talkin'," he says, and he closes his eyes. His quirky magic. His shine and blue heart way. Burning that high octane fuel. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 04/09/2019 : 18:08:14
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| ...trading stories with the old tuna men in the deep harbor city. Nights at round tables off India. "...all the way to the Gulf on that boat..." he says, and they knowingly nod. His cryptic codes on the back of nav charts and triple A maps. The places he marks with X's. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 04/10/2019 : 15:57:46
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Melinda's Waltz
(For Becka Rogers. May you be at peace. )
~*~
Things to remember, things to forget
May be what's left of it now.
Days by the river, ice bound and blue
A basket, a bottle, moments with you.
Sounded so simple, but wasn't it cold?
Fresh-faced, looking ahead.
If we could've jumped forward
Looked back at today
Would we find us alone in our beds?
With your head on my shoulder
Your hand on my back
I could almost dare to dream.
Plans that we made
At the end of those days
Words that we truly did mean.
It's only too late,
When we bring down the gate,
Lock up, turn out the lights.
There's a path not yet walked
For one, maybe both
Where the past and future are right.
[So many miles between then and now
And more between us and romance
But, Hell, here we are
It's the wee, small hours
There's always time for a slow dance...]
It's nearly a year since I last saw your face
These days I'm just learning to walk
So much to offer, so little to give
But we're dancing, no time to talk.
With your head on my shoulder
Your hand on my back
I could almost dare to dream
Plans that we made
At the end of those days
Words that we truly did mean
It's snowing tonight, I can picture the lights
On the mountain from your back porch
Hard to tell, I was under your spell
I always carried the torch.
Some of my edges, cleaned and smooth
Some rough as ever I fear.
It's late in the game, there's no one to blame
What doesn't bring a laugh, brings a tear.
So many miles between then and now
And more between us and romance
But, Hell, here we are
It's the wee, small hours
There's always time for a slow dance...
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Edited by - buckman on 04/10/2019 16:07:08 |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 04/13/2019 : 08:21:50
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Batman without Robin,
Sherlock without a clue
That’s how it would be if
There was me without you.
Slips of paper in a pocket,
it’s much too much to say.
The memories come too damn hard
when you live them day to day.
George without Ira
John without Paul
Nothing left of me without you,
There’s nowhere left to fall.
Days drift by, the years go on,
Nobody ever calls
Never looked down the river,
Never saw I was nearing the falls.
Slips of paper in a pocket,
It’s much too much to say.
The memories come too damn hard
When you live them day to day.
Batman without Robin,
Sherlock without a clue
That’s how it would be if
There was me without you.
Hank Beukema - © revbuckman music April 13, 2019
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 04/14/2019 : 17:55:14
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| San Elijo. Breakfast in VG's parking lot. April light coming up off the asphalt. Streaks of sun shining their shoulders. Salt-keen air where the tracks end at sea level. Languorous waves rolling in. "Brain chemistry. Little things. What's drippin' in the pan in the moment." His laugh. His touched face. His baffling ways. "See what I'm sayin'," he says. |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 04/15/2019 : 07:57:27
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For Vince Bell Long Ago
Whispering ghost ships sail by
Leaving me standing on the pier
With my suitcase and my dreams.
I woke too early one morning
and
Suddenly I was old.
That scared person usually
Left behind in sleep has
Taken over
pretending to be me.
Everything hurts and
Everything is harder to do.
Sometimes it seems like every day
We have to learn how to live all over again...
2006
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 04/18/2019 : 16:06:31
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I sat in the dark in the back of the saloon,
saving the world...
I could smell the fear,
the loneliness and the desperation in the room.
And that was just me.
OK, just kidding. I wasn't afraid.
The other two things just sorta grew on me,
like hunger, no, that's not exactly right;
more like lines on a man's face.
After years of not looking,
one day they were just there.
Loneliness and desperation were okay,
but what with what I did,
fear was not, I thought
as I reached for the green bottle
and looked at the gun lying next to it...
One for the lonely, one for the fear;
The desperation I let go it's own way.
Like hunger, it helped me keep an edge...
It was good for business...
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 04/22/2019 : 18:17:38
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| She has him that day. With her eyes and her camera. Everything happening out of frame. "A fable..." he says. "A little riddle for the mind. White beaches. Summer's sweet tree-lined lane..." The wish in his face. Blissful in yesterday's world. "We were lucky," she says. "Yes," he says, "Yes... Where were you then?" "A holiday," she says. "Flags and bunting. Music on the air. May's immaculate light through the willows. Brigid handing me crusts by The Pond. The ducks loud and fearless." "What else...?" he says, and he stops in midstride and takes her hands in his, "...tell me now." "Miles of bluebonnets," she says. "A courthouse with a four-sided clock tower. A bandstand gazebo in the town square. A park to picnic in. A bench to rest on." She sees it all in his eyes. "The pushcart man with his striped apron and pink cotton candy machine. A yellow bird in a gilded cage singing in a window next to the wind chime store." "Save everything..." he says. "Save it all..." |
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buckman
Firefly
USA
2820 Posts |
Posted - 04/25/2019 : 22:46:53
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Stuffed shells baking in the oven,
house smelling of garlic bread and vanilla candles.
Ladybugs making love on the back porch.
Betty named them Rufus and Nadine
and we watched them for an hour
listening to A Love Supreme
playing out the window
in the Hudson Valley summer afternoon.
They would go at it like mad
for a little while,
then rest,
then go at it like mad,
then rest.
Finally after we thought
they might be stuck together,
he circled her body three times,
then they both flew away.
We hadn't needed the inspiration,
But,
I passed a lifetime looking at her legs
and watching her eyes dance
watching them.
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 05/06/2019 : 17:33:52
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| Two people wide awake with their eyes closed. What are we looking for? she asks him. "We're not looking," he says, "We're seeing." Morricone soundtrack, she says. Red filter. The priest in black cassock and wide brimmed hat. Flash on the lens where the sun is rising. I stare at the broken puzzle in my patent leather shoes. The corner and edge pieces missing. The image too bright to say what it means. The corn green and tasseled in the field on the way to the trains. |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 05/06/2019 : 17:39:44
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| He presses the tips of his fingers together, "...a piece at a time..." he says. "Random pictures. Enough to see where it goes." |
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Ailinn
Windchimer
2173 Posts |
Posted - 05/06/2019 : 17:44:03
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| Pears in pale tissue on bone china plates. Virtuous hands by the napkins. Chandeliered hallways. Enchantment behind every closed door. "Go on..." he says, and he makes the cut, "...on a scale of one to ten..." They travel through lives beyond reprise or dissolution. His diamond highways. His ruby at the top of the mast. The fog ribboning in cradling geraniums. "You see how it is..." he says. |
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Doug L
Firefly
Canada
5446 Posts |
Posted - 05/07/2019 : 00:00:02
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Bents, Saskatchewan, is a ghost town. There are quite a few of them, more all the time. Finding them has become a sport of sorts. They disappear from the maps, see, so you have to rely on elders, what hints they're willing to provide. Then hope a road still exists.
Bents is a little different. Spookier. People have seen UFOs here. It's not easy to find the site. Roads in are so rarely used that they're grown over and easy to miss. There's the grain elevator, a few surviving homes, and the general store. The shelves in the store still have some items on them. They're not for sale.
There was a time in the early twentieth century when Saskatchewan was the third most populated province in Canada, behind Ontario and Quebec. Hard to believe now, but it once was a very affordable destination for immigrants looking to homestead. The federal government was giving the land away. You can't beat that draw. People traveled from all over, in droves. Survival was a challenge. Get tough or die. Truly.
Folks came, near-killed themselves making the land arable. The women had kids, the kids helped with the work as soon as able. There'd be incorporation. Up went the elevator, in came the railway. A post office was useful, provided another couple jobs. Life became a better crap shoot. So what if the weather savaged your plans. Next year's country. They don't call it that for nothing.
Then it ended. A little faster than gradually. Prices fell. The crops failed. Men's bodies gave out. Drought, frost. Corporate firms came like vultures, bought folks out. Many towns were abandoned. The rails rusted out, sunk beneath the silt. Families scattered to the cities. A few ghosts moved in. Animals. Rats. Vandals. The wind and storms can wreak havoc on an abandoned town, swirling up so it feels like it's raining gravel. Bents got beat up pretty good. Stoned. A lot of older buildings collapsed. Not so anybody'd notice.
Someone purchased Bents. A young man who knew a family who once lived there. People were vandalizing the remaining structures, so he made a case for buying it and preserving what's left. He doesn't allow people in anymore, or if he does it's by special appointment only. His heart's in the right place.
There's this sense that Bents truly is a ghost town. Meaning that it is haunted. People used to freak out about it. Photographers among them. You'd go and stand there, the wind making noises around you, the grasses whistling, the houses rattling. A fox comes out of the tall grass and your skin shrinks, goosebumps all over. A whirlwind rises, bounces little rocks off your face. The prairie is a hard religion.
And then there are the stories of seeing unidentified objects lighting up the night sky. Reported by many more than two people. Bents. It's out there. The grain elevator sings at night.
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The Nightly Vigil