Dang it, dream girl.

Last night, I met the girl of my dreams. Unfortunately, I woke up to find that last statement literal. Humorous and disheartening. I barely got to spend any time with her, and I’ve already forgotten some of that. What I do remember is that she enjoyed the  rain and splashing in puddles. She had long semi-curly brown hair (then again, it was raining, so maybe it was just frizzy, doesn’t really matter to me) and an infectious smile with dimples. 

When I was a kid, I occasionally had dreams that I thought came true. Nothing terribly dramatic, I don’t think. Or maybe they were just déjà vu and I just didn’t understand what that was at the time. Childhood memories are terribly unreliable, as are remembered dreams. 

If my life was a movie, at least I could probably presume she would come to life so I could have a real conversation with her. Then I’d probably full in love, and then she would decide that I wasn’t her dream man. And I would wish I’d never had that dream. 

I’ll keep my eyes peeled anyway. 



I am so thirsty; I am so nauseous. This drought is more than I can bear. I am tired of deceiving myself, deceiving you. I hope for a 40 day flood, a flood to fill the valley, and I will hope someone throws me a life preserver so I can doggy paddle over to the mountain top. I know better than to try the breaststroke, because every time I try it, I sink like I’ve a millstone about my neck.

But what will I do should that flood come and I reach the mountain? I’ve been there before only to lose my footing.

Oh there I go lying again. Truthfully, the snow was just so pure, I grabbed a sled to enjoy the rush down, but how I wish I hadn’t. How I long to be back, but my body, my body betrays me.

Pretend Love

I can’t pretend to think my life, even my love life is worse than anyone else’s. I don’t usually go around complaining, except to my closest friends. I know I’ve had my heart broken a few times, and well, that sucks, but I guess life goes on, you know. But what bothers me more is the potential harm I’ve done on the other side, being the heart-breaker. It’s not something I ever set out to do, but I probably knew better. In the heat of the moment, for however brief it was, it was nice to pretend I was in love. But when it was over, all I could think of was how badly I wanted the real thing. 

The Hand Song by Nickel Creek

I rarely post lyrics as a post, but I will make an exception here. Few songs can bring a tear to my eye, but this one did. Though the emotional effect is certainly aided by the music, I think you can gather enough from the words alone.  I think I actually posted these lyrics a long time ago at my Xanga, but it hit me again as though for the first time.


“The Hand Song”

The boy only wanting to give mother something,
And all of her roses had bloomed.

Looking at him as he came rushing in,
knowing her roses were doomed.

All she could see were some thorns buried deep,
And tears that he cried as she tended his wounds.

And she knew it was love, it was what she could understand.
He was showing his love and that’s how he hurt his hands.

He still remembers that night as a child, on his mothers knee.
She held him close and she opened her Bible, and quietly started to read.

Then seeing a picture of Jesus, he cried out:
“Mama he’s got some scars just like me!”

And he knew it was love, it was what he could understand.
He was showing his love, and that’s how he hurt his hands.

Now the boy is grown and moved out on his own.
When Uncle Sam comes along.
A foreign affair, but our young men are there.
And luck had his number drawn.

It wasn’t that long till our hero was gone, he gave to a friend what he learned from the cross.

But they knew it was love, it one they could understand.
He was showing his love, and that’s how he hurt his hands.

It was one they could understand.

He was showing his love, and that’s how he hurt his hands.

Muse(ings) 5

Muse(ings) 5

I’m embarking on a new chapter in my life, a new frontier that intimidates me. See, the next few pages of my life story are mostly out of my control, and I don’t know how they’ll be written. Will the climax that has been building for the last few years be resolved in the way I’ve hoped for so long or will I have to move along into an unknown, if more realistic, alternative? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough—knowing that resolution is on the way is almost bittersweet in a manner I can’t quite explain. In my head, a soundtrack of songs of wanting play on and on.

I suppose the romance element of a story is indeed only part, but it’s funny how it can be so integral to everything else. It’s the potential merging of two stories in a crossover that is ever so unpredictable. It’s two adventures becoming one, complicating the character development, enriching the plot, and doubling the drama. It’s good, but it’s heavy and not for the faint of heart.

So, as the plot unfurls, the setting alters a bit too—I’m a couple months into my new apartment, once again living with my roommate of the past two years. My room is clean for the first time all summer. I can’t say the same for my heart.

Two more years of graduate school—I’m going to be 25, nearly 26 by the time I’m done with my Master’s degree; I can’t wait that long to start my life—life begins here and now.

Muse(ings) 2

It’s funny what music can do to you. It drove me from my favorite coffee shop tonight and to another across town. For at The Muse, I saw girl pants on guys, and brightly colored hair and t-shirts—I thought to myself, I love this scene so often, but not tonight. I had gone to relax and to read and to think, and perhaps even to write. After all, Muse(ings) II is quite due. I pondered my course of action in the parallel parking space for a few minutes. This is my place… why are other people whom I didn’t approve here. I do suppose I can’t in fact make the world work my way.

I have another place I do enjoy, as much for the richness of the building as the coffee, and that is The White Hart. History oozes from the walls of this 1800’s downtown Lynchburg building. ‘twas not always a coffee shop, but must have always longed to be a riverhead of many a man’s thoughts. I read my novel and music begins to play… I left The Muse because of the music… I want to drown in words tonight, not in notes. A rhythm sets in. No, a cacophony. This is awful. I love folk, but they have no cohesion, everything is grating. A voice begins, with clarity and strength—a woman’s voice swimming against the current of a musical river. The voice itself changes the course of the current and the music begins to gel. I appreciate it. The dragon in my book is angered, but villains lie slain.

I’ve written something already on this day, and I know it has been read by the most important of readers. The response is withheld as yet, but my arrows have not yet scared the target into running away.

My mind sings along, we’ve got to come together right now, over me…. Stop hey, what’s that sound… don’t you want somebody to love. I love it. Americana renditions of classics. Perhaps my story will be a modern retelling of classic love stories. Is this a Shakespearean comedy or a tragedy? The tragedy would be to never know.

(The above is part of a series of posts inspired by times at my favorite coffee shop… in this one however, I have cheated a bit… it was written with Muse inspiration but from my bedroom.)