We sat at the desert inn, at the window which afforded a magnificent view onto Monument Valley, awaiting our luncheon orders. She sipped desert mint tea sweetened by hummingbird saliva and I lapped pomegranate wine, a divine concoction of pine sap sweetened by cactus rind and desert rosehips with a drizzle of wild honey, harvested not from the hive but from the beaks of mountain owl.
It did not come with electricity or a smash of static on the air, but it was there. Braelin Cordelis, five minutes into the darkness of a new day, a streetlight’s glow falling through his window like a subtle visitor, was caught on the edge of his chair. Knowledge flowed to him, information of a most sublime order, privacy, intimacy, all in one slow sweep of the air; his grandson was just now, just this minute, into this world, his only grandson. He could feel him, that child coming, making way his debut into the universe, and his name would be Shag. And for this life he and Shag would be in a mysterious and incomprehensible state of connection. This, in the streetlight’s glow, in the start of a new day though dawn not yet afoot, he was told.
My Uncle Jonathan was a wonderful writer and an even better storyteller. By that I mean he was gifted with a vivid imagination when recounting events from his colorful past. How much of his writing was accurate has always been up for debate. But if only half of what he swore to be the truth were true, the man lived a rich and fortunate life.
We have now reached week 147. I have sometimes used the number as an inspiration and this was one of the more obvious ones.
Continue reading “Week 147 – Snooker, Dalmatians And Dead Frogs”
The first time the piano teacher walked up the two flights to our apartment, my mother rushed to help him. “Thank you, but I can manage,” he said as he tap-tapped his way up. He wore the thickest glasses I had ever seen. His eyeballs, massive behind the lenses, wobbled and darted – not quite focused on anything in particular. Tallish and round, he always wore a suit. His big shoes were shiny. Before he even entered the room, I could smell his cologne – heavy and manly. When he opened his mouth to speak, he sounded airy, womanly. Sometimes, when I’d play, he’d sing along in a shrilly opera-singer voice. I’M a yankee doodle dan-DEE…
Week 146 is a very special posting for me. It’s my hundredth. I started at week 46 so that makes 101 but Nik covered for me when I was on holiday.
It’s strange trying to get your head around the inclusive numbers so that 46-146 is actually 101. It’s like the days of the year, I still can’t work out why we have 365 (Forget the leap years.) There are fifty two weeks and there are seven days in a week so that adds up to 364. It must be a bank holiday that employers don’t tell us about and more importantly, don’t pay us for!
Continue reading “Moses, Stevie Wonder And A Hundred Pieces Of Pish”
We went as far as his car would take us, driving past the smoking blue mountains of north Georgia and Tennessee, the hickory sweetness invading the cracked leather of our 1995 Chevrolet Cavalier, which was an indistinguishable red-brown-orange depending on which angle you looked at it from. We sped through the once-treasured nightmare of Detroit, the neglected chaotic sunset of Dallas. Yellowstone, freshly scorched and withered from its latest cleansing.
As a youngster, I watched as my father was electrocuted while stringing Christmas tree lights. I remember his body flopping on the carpet like a gaffed tuna before coming to rest near my little feet. My mom walked in and dropped her groceries all over my little head. I was unable to attend his funeral, having been admitted to Anchorage Memorial Hospital with a head full of lumps and a lifelong fear of colored lights.
Well here we are at week 145. Doesn’t time fly when you are reading this pish! Maybe not!!
Continue reading “Week 145 – Lady Problems, Too Much Information And Shane’s Floater”
I’m in the club. In the home of smoke, dope, short, short skirts and low-cut, nipple revealing tops, iron-hard six packs, bulging biceps, desperate dealings, shitty, shady pick-up lines and nine-millimeter lethal put-downs.
My stomping grounds. I embrace my ex. Look over her shoulder for my next ex to be.
I’m bouncing to the beat with a hottie that got potential and a none slip differential – and then I’m not.
literally stories 