I hold this jeweled box
Now empty.
Once filled with brilliant gems, their multifaceted weight left creased, the velvet lining:
The emerald traded for hope and anticipation,
The ruby spent on lusty yearning and young love,
The diamond given over and over and over for patient guardianship,
The sapphire bargained for fitness and health.
Gleaming prizes gone,
Their purchase fades as well.
I run my finger around the bottom of the box hoping to find one last gem that might have been missed.
Perhaps a pearl caught in a velvety fold
An overlooked opal
A lost lapis
But no,
The box is empty.
I hold
I hold this
I hold this jeweled
I hold this jeweled box
And
Smile.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Waves of Compassion
Undisturbed
A still, glass-topped bay
Harried
A motorboat dissects the surface
Trailing wake heaves the flat plane
Wave, after wave, after wave, after wave
Gather in lines
Crash, crash, crash the shore
Then calm.
The wet sand
High up on the beach
Evidence
A single act
Can
Mark the universe
A still, glass-topped bay
Harried
A motorboat dissects the surface
Trailing wake heaves the flat plane
Wave, after wave, after wave, after wave
Gather in lines
Crash, crash, crash the shore
Then calm.
The wet sand
High up on the beach
Evidence
A single act
Can
Mark the universe
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Baby Jack
Deluxe, Jumbo, Colossal
Enough?
Single shot, Double dip, triple scoop
Enough?
Super-charged, Turbo-charged, Out-ta sight,
Enough?
Stainless steel, granite counters, iron gate,
Enough?
Women’s Club, Community Club, Country Club,
Enough?
Free credit, zero down, cash rebate,
Enough?
Stock funds, tax-free funds, retirement funds,
Enough?
Swaying palms, gin and tonics, too green lawns,
Enough?
Eiffel Tower, Leaning Tower, Twin Towers,
Enough?
Honey breath
Silk tendrils
Velvet folds
Sapphire caverns
Crystal peace
Embossed Gold
on the flanks of my heart
Enough.
August 22, 2007
Enough?
Single shot, Double dip, triple scoop
Enough?
Super-charged, Turbo-charged, Out-ta sight,
Enough?
Stainless steel, granite counters, iron gate,
Enough?
Women’s Club, Community Club, Country Club,
Enough?
Free credit, zero down, cash rebate,
Enough?
Stock funds, tax-free funds, retirement funds,
Enough?
Swaying palms, gin and tonics, too green lawns,
Enough?
Eiffel Tower, Leaning Tower, Twin Towers,
Enough?
Honey breath
Silk tendrils
Velvet folds
Sapphire caverns
Crystal peace
Embossed Gold
on the flanks of my heart
Enough.
August 22, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Sitting with Whales
“LA-vah,” says the steerer. I reach my arms forward, dip and pull my paddle back one last time before bringing it in dripping and place it perpendicular across my lap. Chatter erupts as the six of us in the outrigger canoe coast closer to the whales. Theories of who, what, where, why travel back and forth, bow to stern. The final consensus is that there are three, a mother, her calf, and an escort.
It is February, 2007. I am spending three weeks on the southwest side of Maui, Hawaii. The whales are here. Humpbacks migrate from the north to the warm and shallow waters of the islands. Annually they begin arriving in December and are gone by April. The official Hawaiian Island whale count done the previous Saturday totaled 1200 animals. The seas of these paradise isles are alive with activity. The males rough it up with other males competing for a mate. The females impregnated last season give birth. The new mothers nurse and teach their young to swim and maneuver to fend off predators. Their activities are serious in terms of species survival, but to me it just looks like too much fun. Pectoral fins and flukes lift and slap sounding a “whack” that skips across the ocean’s surface. Whale bodies rocket out of the water, do a mid flight 180 degree twist and slam back with a huge splash. It’s all the drama of a great big movie on the great big screen.
The first afternoon after arrival in my rented condo community, a resident told me about the Maui Outrigger Club. It is a group of sun leathered, retired, fit, AARP-qualified people that canoe each morning. They offer short time visitors the opportunity to join for $25. With that fee one is able to canoe with them four times. I have gone several times, exhilarated with the human powered slice of boat slipping through the water. Each time I’m treated with a visit to a small herd of graceful swimming turkey platters, the turtles. They swim around a buoy that marks the half way point of an hour’s boat trip. These large oval creatures look comically prehistoric with their thick scaly skinned faces, droopy eyes, and wing-like appendages. I want to yell at them and say, “Smile, dammit”. Such grim looks, makes me think of a cranky teenager who has just been told he has to go with the family to Grammas on Saturday night.
This day we slide off the beach and navigate the incoming surf. The stroker (the person in the first seat who sets the pace) spots a whale’s blow off to the east. After 15 minutes of paddling through the warm salty inlet of Maalaea Bay, we arrive.
I read the picture books in my rental unit and absorbed a few facts about the Humpback. These island visitors are longer than a school bus and wider than the length of Toyota Camry. They weigh about 80,000 pounds. The newborn calf weighs 1500 pounds and consumes 50 pounds of milk a day. This is the sum total of actual facts, most of the rest, particularly that revolving around their behavior is purely speculation.
Several of my crewmates theorize the reason for the escort. This companion could be last year’s calf, now a yearling. It could be a male that is patiently waiting for this female to be done with the calf and take up with him, or it could be another older female just spending time with her pal.
The calf’s pectoral fins are exposed showing their white underside. The baby is feeding. The mother and escort lie still. There is an occasional blow that disturbs the quiet and sends a spray of stinking whale snot high into the air. It smells like a mucky saltwater beach at low tide, boiled down and intensified 10X.
The blue-green ocean holds the morning light bright deep below the surface. My eyes are well protected with dark polarized plastic lenses. My face and arms brown, and soak in the delicious tropical air. I scuff the residual beach sand off my feet and move out to perch upon the oka, one of the arms that attach to the ana (the outrigger). My weight on the oka stabilizes the boat and allows me a higher view of the whales, the three tar gray islets, that lie just off the other side of our canoe. The rules state that boaters are to keep a 100 foot distance between us and them. However, the threesome has now stirred and moves a bit closer to us. (They apparently have different rules.) I see the slick, a thin greasy skim that floats from their oily bodies. Gentle swells lift the boat up and then down; rolling water pushed by a force left long ago far out at sea. I dangle my legs and my toes dip in and out of the water with each rise and fall.
My body lulls with the sea in peaceful contemplation. It is so easy to tie all these human emotions and motivations to this trio of whales. Breathing in the beauty of this place, I fall in love with them. Anthropomorphic stories start playing out in my head. “Oh, a mom and her baby, such love and affection. So sweet she has a protector near by. They are all resting after a laborious birth, probably only a day or so ago.”
I dive deeper to a more meditative layer of thought. I visualize the earth, our planet, this particular outpost in the universe. Humankind, self appointed guardian, rules this messy heap. My lofty contemplation dissolves to the “Save the Whales” bumper sticker, and then cascades down the environmental gutter, the advertised trip to grizzly rack and ruin. Guilt pours in like the waves rushing across the grey gnarled reefs. I resign, desperate and powerless, and then I’m pissed that I’ve lost this poetic pause.
My perfect moment clunks a dull thud. I struggle to recapture the spiritual moment, but I’m stuck sucking the world in through my limited senses and experiences. Here are these whales. There is power within pulling them to this locale. They respond to urges deep with their being, beyond flesh, bone, and blubber. Their cycle of feeding, breeding, birthing, all done via some force unknown to me. My life’s motivations are muffled by thousands of years of humanication, culturization, knowallducation, datafixation, and quantifination.
I sit with whales. I breathe. My breath lifts and falls with the moving water below me. I tell myself to calm. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just be. I try to scrape clean the layers of unnecessary human attachment. I want to let go and feel pulled by some lost gentle attraction that will reveal my primal self. I sit with whales and breathe.
My aging flesh and bones warm. My eyes fill with the sun glinting from the glossy humped backs of the resting creatures. The blue sky is patched with clouds reflected on the water’s surface, wrinkled by pockets of wind. These small gusts blow into my ears the occasional calls of gulls and shrieks of children playing in the surf beachside. I sit with whales and breathe.
I lift and fall harmonious in syncopation with that of the whales, energized by the ocean. My own weight displaces this space in this sea. Perhaps this space may create a small ripple. Perhaps this ripple will generate a microscopic force. Perhaps this force will create a wave. Perhaps this wave, a wave of the purest desire, will breach the confines of my mortality. I sit with whales and breathe.
I sit with whales and breathe.
“LA-vah,” says the steerer. I reach my arms forward, dip and pull my paddle back one last time before bringing it in dripping and place it perpendicular across my lap. Chatter erupts as the six of us in the outrigger canoe coast closer to the whales. Theories of who, what, where, why travel back and forth, bow to stern. The final consensus is that there are three, a mother, her calf, and an escort.
It is February, 2007. I am spending three weeks on the southwest side of Maui, Hawaii. The whales are here. Humpbacks migrate from the north to the warm and shallow waters of the islands. Annually they begin arriving in December and are gone by April. The official Hawaiian Island whale count done the previous Saturday totaled 1200 animals. The seas of these paradise isles are alive with activity. The males rough it up with other males competing for a mate. The females impregnated last season give birth. The new mothers nurse and teach their young to swim and maneuver to fend off predators. Their activities are serious in terms of species survival, but to me it just looks like too much fun. Pectoral fins and flukes lift and slap sounding a “whack” that skips across the ocean’s surface. Whale bodies rocket out of the water, do a mid flight 180 degree twist and slam back with a huge splash. It’s all the drama of a great big movie on the great big screen.
The first afternoon after arrival in my rented condo community, a resident told me about the Maui Outrigger Club. It is a group of sun leathered, retired, fit, AARP-qualified people that canoe each morning. They offer short time visitors the opportunity to join for $25. With that fee one is able to canoe with them four times. I have gone several times, exhilarated with the human powered slice of boat slipping through the water. Each time I’m treated with a visit to a small herd of graceful swimming turkey platters, the turtles. They swim around a buoy that marks the half way point of an hour’s boat trip. These large oval creatures look comically prehistoric with their thick scaly skinned faces, droopy eyes, and wing-like appendages. I want to yell at them and say, “Smile, dammit”. Such grim looks, makes me think of a cranky teenager who has just been told he has to go with the family to Grammas on Saturday night.
This day we slide off the beach and navigate the incoming surf. The stroker (the person in the first seat who sets the pace) spots a whale’s blow off to the east. After 15 minutes of paddling through the warm salty inlet of Maalaea Bay, we arrive.
I read the picture books in my rental unit and absorbed a few facts about the Humpback. These island visitors are longer than a school bus and wider than the length of Toyota Camry. They weigh about 80,000 pounds. The newborn calf weighs 1500 pounds and consumes 50 pounds of milk a day. This is the sum total of actual facts, most of the rest, particularly that revolving around their behavior is purely speculation.
Several of my crewmates theorize the reason for the escort. This companion could be last year’s calf, now a yearling. It could be a male that is patiently waiting for this female to be done with the calf and take up with him, or it could be another older female just spending time with her pal.
The calf’s pectoral fins are exposed showing their white underside. The baby is feeding. The mother and escort lie still. There is an occasional blow that disturbs the quiet and sends a spray of stinking whale snot high into the air. It smells like a mucky saltwater beach at low tide, boiled down and intensified 10X.
The blue-green ocean holds the morning light bright deep below the surface. My eyes are well protected with dark polarized plastic lenses. My face and arms brown, and soak in the delicious tropical air. I scuff the residual beach sand off my feet and move out to perch upon the oka, one of the arms that attach to the ana (the outrigger). My weight on the oka stabilizes the boat and allows me a higher view of the whales, the three tar gray islets, that lie just off the other side of our canoe. The rules state that boaters are to keep a 100 foot distance between us and them. However, the threesome has now stirred and moves a bit closer to us. (They apparently have different rules.) I see the slick, a thin greasy skim that floats from their oily bodies. Gentle swells lift the boat up and then down; rolling water pushed by a force left long ago far out at sea. I dangle my legs and my toes dip in and out of the water with each rise and fall.
My body lulls with the sea in peaceful contemplation. It is so easy to tie all these human emotions and motivations to this trio of whales. Breathing in the beauty of this place, I fall in love with them. Anthropomorphic stories start playing out in my head. “Oh, a mom and her baby, such love and affection. So sweet she has a protector near by. They are all resting after a laborious birth, probably only a day or so ago.”
I dive deeper to a more meditative layer of thought. I visualize the earth, our planet, this particular outpost in the universe. Humankind, self appointed guardian, rules this messy heap. My lofty contemplation dissolves to the “Save the Whales” bumper sticker, and then cascades down the environmental gutter, the advertised trip to grizzly rack and ruin. Guilt pours in like the waves rushing across the grey gnarled reefs. I resign, desperate and powerless, and then I’m pissed that I’ve lost this poetic pause.
My perfect moment clunks a dull thud. I struggle to recapture the spiritual moment, but I’m stuck sucking the world in through my limited senses and experiences. Here are these whales. There is power within pulling them to this locale. They respond to urges deep with their being, beyond flesh, bone, and blubber. Their cycle of feeding, breeding, birthing, all done via some force unknown to me. My life’s motivations are muffled by thousands of years of humanication, culturization, knowallducation, datafixation, and quantifination.
I sit with whales. I breathe. My breath lifts and falls with the moving water below me. I tell myself to calm. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just be. I try to scrape clean the layers of unnecessary human attachment. I want to let go and feel pulled by some lost gentle attraction that will reveal my primal self. I sit with whales and breathe.
My aging flesh and bones warm. My eyes fill with the sun glinting from the glossy humped backs of the resting creatures. The blue sky is patched with clouds reflected on the water’s surface, wrinkled by pockets of wind. These small gusts blow into my ears the occasional calls of gulls and shrieks of children playing in the surf beachside. I sit with whales and breathe.
I lift and fall harmonious in syncopation with that of the whales, energized by the ocean. My own weight displaces this space in this sea. Perhaps this space may create a small ripple. Perhaps this ripple will generate a microscopic force. Perhaps this force will create a wave. Perhaps this wave, a wave of the purest desire, will breach the confines of my mortality. I sit with whales and breathe.
I sit with whales and breathe.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Bubble (Part One)
Out there, in the vastness, two angels kissed. As their lips parted a small, round, weightless and perfect bubble formed. Released from their embrace the bubble floated in the dark amongst the twinkle of stars and the magic of golden heavenly dust. Through deep space the glistening bubble drifted through the dark. Starlight refracted the rainbow colors swirled on its thin resilient skin.
Silently it floated into the brightening light of a particular star. Nabbed by an invisible tentacle, the bubble was pulled into a current and sent swirling round and round and then down. Below was the marbled blue-green planet, Earth.
Between the open sky and a dense dark forest, the bubble floated. Down, down it went until the pointed tippy-tip-top of a very tall fir tree snagged it, catching it gently and cuddling it in its tender new lime green needled fingers.
The bubble sat on the tree top for days swaying with the tree in the wind, back and forth. One afternoon a strong gust knocked the bubble from its fir nest. Filled with the tree’s damp warmth, the bubble sank quickly. It landed on a gray pebble beach. There the bubble rolled over and over on the little rocks tickling its multicolored skin.
As it happened, two young lovers were strolling the beach that day. Arm in arm they were laughing at the jabbering crows that flew overhead waging an aerial battle with the seagulls. While the gulls seemed to be besting the crows in the long flights, they were no match for the crow’s short drops and swoops. Taunting the gulls, the crows boasted their invincibility until SNAP. A gull managed to nip the black tail feathers of one of the noisiest birds and sent it diving bombing towards the beach. He managed to pull himself out of his death spiral just before he smacked beak first into the rocks. Although his tail was a bit mangled his ego was still in tact. He righted himself and lighted on the beach. Parading on the rocks he seemed to say, “Did you like my stunt?”
His head raised with his recovered pride, the crow then stumbled over the bubble. POP! The young man and woman continued to laugh at the crazy crow. Suddenly the air was filled with a hum. If velvet sang, it would sound like the noise that began to layer in over the beach. It flooded the nearby woods, and out to the sea. The crow rotated and cocked his head at the source. He saw a round object that lay on the rocks just behind him. Being a crow and the little round thing being so shiny, that bird snapped around and trapped it in his big black triangular beak. But as soon as he got a good hold of it, he dropped it instantly and flew away.
The young lovers approached the small humming silver disc. The woman bent down and touched it. She reached her fingers out and gently lifted it placing it in her palm. It looked like a silver button. It was a bit larger than a quarter and had two holes placed side by side in the center. There was a rim that ran around the edge. It still held a bit of the bubble’s iridescence that carried it to this place.
As she held it in her hand, it vibrated with an intensity that varied with the volume of the hum. It was the strangest thing. The noise would lessen, but the richness of the hum remained.
She stood bedazzled. Her lover spoke and she jumped clamping her fist around the disc. Her heart raced and she felt the momentary rush and flush, her face reddened and skin tingled. Her physiological response zapped the little disc into overdrive and seemed to suck in her energy. It blasted out an intense hum and vibration that cleared the trees of the resting crows. They scattered cawing and crackling back deeper into the forest.
Stunned, she slowly opened her fist. As she did, the button quieted to a resting hum and vibration. The young man looked at the little disc. “What is this thing? Where did it come from?” he asked, brows furrowed.
“That crow, I think. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Just leave it,” he said.
“No way,” she said.
“Yes, please drop it? It’s weird and who knows, it may be dangerous…like radioactive or something.” he cautioned. “Leave it and lets go back to the cabin.”
“No. I am keeping it,” she said firmly. With that she carefully put it in her pocket, grabbed his hand and led him back down to the water. He hesitated and pulled her back, then relented. Together they waded ankle deep in the thin waves washing the sandy beach exposed with a low tide. She playfully kicked the water dancing with the hum of the silver button. He, on the other hand, pulled and flung the water with his toes. He was realizing that their first real fight was going to be about a silly but strange little silver button.
Silently it floated into the brightening light of a particular star. Nabbed by an invisible tentacle, the bubble was pulled into a current and sent swirling round and round and then down. Below was the marbled blue-green planet, Earth.
Between the open sky and a dense dark forest, the bubble floated. Down, down it went until the pointed tippy-tip-top of a very tall fir tree snagged it, catching it gently and cuddling it in its tender new lime green needled fingers.
The bubble sat on the tree top for days swaying with the tree in the wind, back and forth. One afternoon a strong gust knocked the bubble from its fir nest. Filled with the tree’s damp warmth, the bubble sank quickly. It landed on a gray pebble beach. There the bubble rolled over and over on the little rocks tickling its multicolored skin.
As it happened, two young lovers were strolling the beach that day. Arm in arm they were laughing at the jabbering crows that flew overhead waging an aerial battle with the seagulls. While the gulls seemed to be besting the crows in the long flights, they were no match for the crow’s short drops and swoops. Taunting the gulls, the crows boasted their invincibility until SNAP. A gull managed to nip the black tail feathers of one of the noisiest birds and sent it diving bombing towards the beach. He managed to pull himself out of his death spiral just before he smacked beak first into the rocks. Although his tail was a bit mangled his ego was still in tact. He righted himself and lighted on the beach. Parading on the rocks he seemed to say, “Did you like my stunt?”
His head raised with his recovered pride, the crow then stumbled over the bubble. POP! The young man and woman continued to laugh at the crazy crow. Suddenly the air was filled with a hum. If velvet sang, it would sound like the noise that began to layer in over the beach. It flooded the nearby woods, and out to the sea. The crow rotated and cocked his head at the source. He saw a round object that lay on the rocks just behind him. Being a crow and the little round thing being so shiny, that bird snapped around and trapped it in his big black triangular beak. But as soon as he got a good hold of it, he dropped it instantly and flew away.
The young lovers approached the small humming silver disc. The woman bent down and touched it. She reached her fingers out and gently lifted it placing it in her palm. It looked like a silver button. It was a bit larger than a quarter and had two holes placed side by side in the center. There was a rim that ran around the edge. It still held a bit of the bubble’s iridescence that carried it to this place.
As she held it in her hand, it vibrated with an intensity that varied with the volume of the hum. It was the strangest thing. The noise would lessen, but the richness of the hum remained.
She stood bedazzled. Her lover spoke and she jumped clamping her fist around the disc. Her heart raced and she felt the momentary rush and flush, her face reddened and skin tingled. Her physiological response zapped the little disc into overdrive and seemed to suck in her energy. It blasted out an intense hum and vibration that cleared the trees of the resting crows. They scattered cawing and crackling back deeper into the forest.
Stunned, she slowly opened her fist. As she did, the button quieted to a resting hum and vibration. The young man looked at the little disc. “What is this thing? Where did it come from?” he asked, brows furrowed.
“That crow, I think. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Just leave it,” he said.
“No way,” she said.
“Yes, please drop it? It’s weird and who knows, it may be dangerous…like radioactive or something.” he cautioned. “Leave it and lets go back to the cabin.”
“No. I am keeping it,” she said firmly. With that she carefully put it in her pocket, grabbed his hand and led him back down to the water. He hesitated and pulled her back, then relented. Together they waded ankle deep in the thin waves washing the sandy beach exposed with a low tide. She playfully kicked the water dancing with the hum of the silver button. He, on the other hand, pulled and flung the water with his toes. He was realizing that their first real fight was going to be about a silly but strange little silver button.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
wHAt if you CouLd iMAgine what you CaN’t ImaGinE?
What if the hollow bones of anxious meddling crows held messages from the ether?
What if the irritated oyster’s pearl spat poison and melted in the diver’s hand?
What if glory?
What if the green light of cat eyes lasered and frayed instructions in our DNA?
What if baby’s first giggle is the only authentic sound we hear?
What if truth?
What if the avalanche roar echoed within the heft of mountains for ever?
What if the moon stuck in the night sky and the ocean’s tides stilled, never to move again?
What if peace?
What if our feet slipped sideways off the corduroy earth and left us lonely, hanging on lightning bolts?
What if human tears salted the clouds and the drenching rain fed the universe?
What if mercy?
…
WHat iF the miRaclE of birTh iS the MiracLe of DeAth?
What if the irritated oyster’s pearl spat poison and melted in the diver’s hand?
What if glory?
What if the green light of cat eyes lasered and frayed instructions in our DNA?
What if baby’s first giggle is the only authentic sound we hear?
What if truth?
What if the avalanche roar echoed within the heft of mountains for ever?
What if the moon stuck in the night sky and the ocean’s tides stilled, never to move again?
What if peace?
What if our feet slipped sideways off the corduroy earth and left us lonely, hanging on lightning bolts?
What if human tears salted the clouds and the drenching rain fed the universe?
What if mercy?
…
WHat iF the miRaclE of birTh iS the MiracLe of DeAth?
Friday, August 3, 2007
Genuine Italian Red Leather
Genuine Italian Red Leather
Let me see…to what could that refer? Could it be a purse purchased in Florence from a curvy black haired Italian vendor? Could it be a sexy pair of pants that proved a reward after months of dieting? Could it be a lusciously deep easy chair and ottoman spotted in the furniture store window months ago, laid away, and delivered after a last payment? No, no, and no.
My “Genuine Italian Red Leather” nom de plume refers to the stylish saddle of my zippy silver Vespa scooter. This writer is all about going overboard. Why take “standard” when “deluxe” is so much more fun? Maximize, magnify, supersize, first edition, first rendition, limited admission, all natural, all organic, all star, all the bells and whistles, surround sound, mega pixel, mega star, gold star, five star, first class, large mass…on my ass?
Yep, mass on my ass…well, actually tumor on my sacrum/hip/spine. Since then, I’ve gone overboard….yes, with stuff, but also (and most importantly) with life, friends, love, truth, and basically the universe. At this point you should start hearing Kenny Loggins, “For once in your life, here’s your miracle, stand up and fight, this is it….” As with most cancer patients and those of us who have had a pretty darn hard smack upside the head, we realize the importance of today. Talk is cheap on this subject, the words come fast through the ears or eyes, to the brain, but don’t often stick long enough in the heart and/or soul. It is with writing that I have found I can produce some spritual post-it notes that I can slather on or around the edges of my being.
This blog is my own virtual journey to invent or reinvent this scooter rider. I am beep-beep-ing down the highway (with motorcycle endorsement, SNEL approved hat, and gloves), ass and now shrinking mass planted stylishly on my Vespa’s Genuine Italian Red Leather saddle.
Let me see…to what could that refer? Could it be a purse purchased in Florence from a curvy black haired Italian vendor? Could it be a sexy pair of pants that proved a reward after months of dieting? Could it be a lusciously deep easy chair and ottoman spotted in the furniture store window months ago, laid away, and delivered after a last payment? No, no, and no.
My “Genuine Italian Red Leather” nom de plume refers to the stylish saddle of my zippy silver Vespa scooter. This writer is all about going overboard. Why take “standard” when “deluxe” is so much more fun? Maximize, magnify, supersize, first edition, first rendition, limited admission, all natural, all organic, all star, all the bells and whistles, surround sound, mega pixel, mega star, gold star, five star, first class, large mass…on my ass?
Yep, mass on my ass…well, actually tumor on my sacrum/hip/spine. Since then, I’ve gone overboard….yes, with stuff, but also (and most importantly) with life, friends, love, truth, and basically the universe. At this point you should start hearing Kenny Loggins, “For once in your life, here’s your miracle, stand up and fight, this is it….” As with most cancer patients and those of us who have had a pretty darn hard smack upside the head, we realize the importance of today. Talk is cheap on this subject, the words come fast through the ears or eyes, to the brain, but don’t often stick long enough in the heart and/or soul. It is with writing that I have found I can produce some spritual post-it notes that I can slather on or around the edges of my being.
This blog is my own virtual journey to invent or reinvent this scooter rider. I am beep-beep-ing down the highway (with motorcycle endorsement, SNEL approved hat, and gloves), ass and now shrinking mass planted stylishly on my Vespa’s Genuine Italian Red Leather saddle.
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