For somebody who likes to believe in the power of language and my own capacity to wield it, I have no better way to communicate my feelings to you, Phil, than this: I love you. You are my friend and always will be. It has been quite some time since we have communed in any manner that befits the friendship I believe we have, but I also trust that that is an ephemeral situation. I agree with David that one of the largest challenges that stands before you is that you hold yourself to such high standards. When the dragon to be slain resides in one’s need to banish dragons, finding the small, tender spot where the knife goes in can be difficult, if not impossible. Insofar as people letting you down, I can speak only for myself. I know sometimes I let you, and others whom I love, down. I do it more than I’d like. I also know that, sometimes, this happens because I am battling my own dragons or finding my own palaces. Sometimes I must be selfish in order to keep things together in this here heart. I don’t like it that way, but I know it is true.
Ok. I promise there will be no more fantasy-based metaphors in this posting.
How the hell do I get an invite to the stinking film page? Oh, I see.
Ned, Dani, JimA, Dave, and I had a grand time at a Bocce tournament yesterday. It was held at a most beautiful and envy-inspiring spread in the eastern part of the county. It took a while to adjust to the rules. I am used to our own bastardized version of court Bocce, while the game of the day was a more wild and free-form variant I will call “Field Bocce.” I liked several elements of it, especially the way each round was like playing a new hole on a golf course. We had some intense competition, as well. Dave and I got into a heated round with Ned and his partner, a fellow named Steve. A 90-minute match punctuated by rainstorms and beer, and which covered nearly an acre of territory, came down to one-eighth of an inch. The winners were only confirmed after four measurements by uninterested parties. Ned and Steve were victorious. Dave and I were distraught, but remembered that a guy who used to coach basketball around here would have told that we didn’t lose by an eighth on an inch; we lost when we didn’t finish the game when we had a chance. Damn.
Hope all is well. The weather is nice, so I am getting outta the house. Jennifer has been gone since yesterday morning at a wedding in South Bend, and she should be back soon. Yay!
Here’s a new poem fer y’all.
“Touch Me Sweetly”
Touch me sweetly with your soft hand
And I can lift heavy loads.
I grow sinewy muscle
And my arms have shadows where the light
Shades from the newfound strength.
Touch me softly,
And the dirty things
Become clean in my grasp
You show me where the glasses are smudged
Where the floor needs sweeping
And where my body sags and the skin falls away.
Touch me with your sweet hand
And I become solar-active,
Generating and radiating
Full tons of power and energy;
Lights glow around my arms
And it is no longer cold
In the cloudless night
When people huddle under thin blankets.
Touch me,
And I become clairvoyant to your heart.
The table before me
Arrays itself with pictured tiles
Mapping the pathways
To the happy places that you know discreetly,
And the dark, foreboding ones, too.
Touch me and I go to those places.
Touch me with those hands,
Those hands,
Those hands—
And I slay dragons.
Touch me
And I cry on your shoulder during the sad days.
Touch me
And I bring platters
Heaped with good food and pretty flowers
To your old and worn table.
Touch me.
Touch me.
And I will touch you.
Ok. I promise there will be no more fantasy-based metaphors in this posting.
How the hell do I get an invite to the stinking film page? Oh, I see.
Ned, Dani, JimA, Dave, and I had a grand time at a Bocce tournament yesterday. It was held at a most beautiful and envy-inspiring spread in the eastern part of the county. It took a while to adjust to the rules. I am used to our own bastardized version of court Bocce, while the game of the day was a more wild and free-form variant I will call “Field Bocce.” I liked several elements of it, especially the way each round was like playing a new hole on a golf course. We had some intense competition, as well. Dave and I got into a heated round with Ned and his partner, a fellow named Steve. A 90-minute match punctuated by rainstorms and beer, and which covered nearly an acre of territory, came down to one-eighth of an inch. The winners were only confirmed after four measurements by uninterested parties. Ned and Steve were victorious. Dave and I were distraught, but remembered that a guy who used to coach basketball around here would have told that we didn’t lose by an eighth on an inch; we lost when we didn’t finish the game when we had a chance. Damn.
Hope all is well. The weather is nice, so I am getting outta the house. Jennifer has been gone since yesterday morning at a wedding in South Bend, and she should be back soon. Yay!
Here’s a new poem fer y’all.
“Touch Me Sweetly”
Touch me sweetly with your soft hand
And I can lift heavy loads.
I grow sinewy muscle
And my arms have shadows where the light
Shades from the newfound strength.
Touch me softly,
And the dirty things
Become clean in my grasp
You show me where the glasses are smudged
Where the floor needs sweeping
And where my body sags and the skin falls away.
Touch me with your sweet hand
And I become solar-active,
Generating and radiating
Full tons of power and energy;
Lights glow around my arms
And it is no longer cold
In the cloudless night
When people huddle under thin blankets.
Touch me,
And I become clairvoyant to your heart.
The table before me
Arrays itself with pictured tiles
Mapping the pathways
To the happy places that you know discreetly,
And the dark, foreboding ones, too.
Touch me and I go to those places.
Touch me with those hands,
Those hands,
Those hands—
And I slay dragons.
Touch me
And I cry on your shoulder during the sad days.
Touch me
And I bring platters
Heaped with good food and pretty flowers
To your old and worn table.
Touch me.
Touch me.
And I will touch you.
