Rabbit Trails and Spiderwebs

No one cares Time had stopped. Like a movie, the items that used to be my life were floating and flying and suspended in air around me.   The shockwave of the explosion was expanding and moving outward… I could watch it. It was surreal.   It overcame the room, and then my extended world.   The consumption of every aspect of my life was complete.   I was submerged in the concussive wave of disbelief. Pervasive.   Look it up… it is the right word.   It is still inadequate.   You cannot smell what I smell, as it lingers after the event.   You cannot understand the sound in my ears, until the deafness became more, and there was no sound.   Stultifying.   Another good word… and still not enough.   How can I describe what you cannot taste?   Words fail to convey, but words are all I have. In a perverse way of life, as every pin-drop is reverberating in my head, I am alone with this cacophony.   Your life is still the same.   Your sight is still seeing the beauty, the

Little pieces of hope. Surprised again with the arrival and amazed at the feelings that come as a companion to them.   Had I expected them to cease?   To be beyond the hope that they represented themselves as?   Was it because the hope itself was only a dream, or that I felt undeserving somehow?   When the little piece of hope was revealed, for it came unannounced as it always does, it came from a place and direction I could hardly have expected.   Thus, the power of the thing itself.   Unexpected and in some ways even unwanted.   That would have been the better of things, to have been done with the anticipation and grieved the non-coming event so that it could be done with and final.   Like being at grandma’s and you wake in the middle of the night waiting on the grandfather clock striking the hour, you lay in bed and wait, knowing that it will come, if you wound it today. If it had not stopped for some reason, or if the hour was nearing its passing.   You roll o

The music It sat there, in the corner.   Hasn’t been moved in years.   The man that used it is gone, but the memories are still resonating, vivid and clear. I watched him play the accordion and was in awe of the music that he made.   The polkas, of course, and the many happy dance tunes. But at times, in the most incredible ways, the tune would become something that would penetrate deeply and with great soul and the curious mix of disconnection.   You would wonder “how can that tune come from that machine?”   The accordion is not generally a mournful and melancholic machine, and yet there it was.   The sound that pulled you in rather than pushed you around the dance floor. The box is curious, and how it came to be is a quirk of history and need and serendipity.   It was used on the ships in the days of sail, and languid winds, to pass the time.   That version was small and quite limited, but the function was the same.   A few buttons on one end, to change the pitch