Where it Started

It was always on the corner of Los Angeles Ave and First St, right by Lenny Dykstra’s Car Wash.  At least that is how I remember the starting line.  We’d crawl up from the back seat and watch the red light, just past my Dad's mustache, flicker across the intersection from our over-sized van.  I want to think that he pushed the accelerator just a little bit, to get the anticipation where it should be, right before he counted.

Pole Position

“One,” he would say with a short pause.  I’d lick my lips and think, there is no way.  I'd look at my brother, and his wrinkled brow would say, "I know dude, no way."

“Two,” he would say and draw out the ooh, like oooh you are in trouble.  I’d check out the car next to us to see if they were counting, too.  They weren't, but only because they didn't know magic.  All they saw was red.

“Three,” he would finish the count and draw out the eee like weeee this is fun.  My brother's brow would straighten while the van would start to rock from side to side.

And it was in that moment, the ultimate pause, that I thought, my goodness maybe he can predict the light change.  Just maybe this guy can actually do that because if anyone could determine the exact moment red went to green, it was the guy behind the wheel. Dad knew magic.

Winter The Friendly Host

On the one hand, I'm Irish.

It’s hard to remember the color the leaves from the days behind us.  They changed without asking me to take notice, and now I am afraid the green has turned to brown and I missed the good parts in-between.  But there are many other reminders that the season has shifted.  We actually went to an NFL game at Wembly, for starters.  Football means Fall, or Autumn, and it was nice to see it arrive here across the pond.

The sun streaks across a much lower path and I am remiss to say the tint of my skin has changed just as quickly as the covering in Parson’s Green.  But that is okay since I cover up my Casper skin with layers. Layers, they say, are the key to keeping warm and hiding the winter glow from unsuspecting by-passers.  It's only fair that I cover the pasty-whiteness that will only deepen over the next few months.  Bye-bye tan-lines and hello Irish skin.

Winter is on its way and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it but welcome the change.  That, and plan a vacation ... Southern Italy? 

Write On, Man

Those aren't pillows!

Prompt:  Why do I write?

(Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg)

Date: 18 October 2011

Location:  26B

--

I write because I know it is going to take a lifetime of writing to explain the answer.  I write because there are novels with my name on them; maybe even a poem that comes from my own mind yet still makes me blush.  There are blog posts, too, which are part of the process where I become comfortable with my voice.  My voice is why I write, because it is how I tell my story, and I still need to find it.  A writer’s voice is in his words, and how can I find my voice unless I ink these words?  But will I find the words?  The only way to find out is to write, and that has to be the reason why I do it. 

My story is in books, letters, blogs, and e-mails.  It is within the thousand words that my craft sleeps.  My story is about catching up with words to the crazy thing that happened to me yesterday.  It’s my voice and I write because I am trying to find it.  I have been lead down a path with forks, spoons, knives, and sporks.  The path leads to my voice, to the reason why I write.  That reason is something elusive, but we know it is there.  All of us do, now it is only my subconscious that needs to be convinced.  It’s a Stanley cup in L.A., but it is mine.  It is the way I show you how I live, breath, and want to feel.