Soul warmed its way through the Stern Grove hills as the three-horn section tooted away, playing the tunes that have enchanted bedrooms ever since Al Green was a spring chicken and you were possibly being conceived.
Over several years of loving, when waists readily gather inches, hair roots abandon their follicles and breasts reach longingly for the navel, each change brews anxiety.
It's a delight, a privilege, really, to accept the invitation a novel extends: a step into the unknown, but also an acceptance that resolution isn't promised. You appreciate that your perceptions will change, maybe with every turning page, because this boundless artform repudiates instantaneity.
Age chases away reluctance, but while I await maturity's blessed arrival in their hearts, which may or may not precede the second coming, today is a fresh opportunity to live up to the legend.
Language is expression, and I’m losing mine. I don’t think I’m ever going to get it back. It’s all I could think about as I ran through the gamut of emotions watching My Father’s Shadow, well not all, but enough to summon the streams from my twin ducts.
Words will find their way.
Everyday is yesterday ... go forward with no regrets y'all