Editor-In-Chief
PORT ISABEL, Texas - Someone once told me that any sort of writing about one's life had to be carried by the human emotion all of us know as pain. Graphic suffering, yes. And a bit of wheelhouse romance every other chapter, preferably with different lovers in different settings. Some appropriate musical soundtrack would help with the writing. Songs are something we assign to certain times in our life.
Okay, okay, I am writing.
It's going well some days and some days it sucks. But that's the trip. Words won't throw themselves on the page no matter how much you beg. It's been fun and work so far. My blogging here gets in the way, and I've tried to kill this website on two-three occasions, but my friends say it keeps them going. I do my best.
In backtracking to those earlier days, I find it is only the best memories that come back in living color. I never knew my life had been so fantastic. I suppose I've been lucky. Those of you who know of my work know of a website where most of those romantic entanglements can be found. Here it is for those of you who do not: http://www.Mainand83.blogspot.com/.
Enjoy it. I've wanted to kill that Blog, as well.
But it lives, perhaps out of some desire to see me in court someday, or maybe even to be there for the eventual Judgment Day, when someone way up there will open my ledger and wonder about allowing me into the best of whatever best could ever be. I'm feeling a bit sad these days. Maybe it's the annual end-of-the-year melancholy - an advance party for that which we know as the Holiday Blues. No, I'm not crying, just running a damaged film across the screen in my brain - trying like crazy to decide whether I've lived just-enough or too-much.
Do we ever account for ourselves and agree on punishment or praise?
But can you ever go back and make things better? No. Life frames you and that's that. The girl you stood-up after she'd bought a new dress for that Friday night date, the old college chum abandoned without notice, the friend you burned for no reason, the love you gave freely and then pulled-back suddenly. It's not a pretty picture if you look at the canvas from side-to-side, and telling a story where you dive in and out of memories is worse than being on a doomed, low-flying cropduster caught in a sudden hailstorm. That barn you crashed into, you tell yourself as the blood drips down your face, was not supposed to be there.
Memories never censor themselves...
- 30 -
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