The electric pulse of panic shakes me from slumber; igniting the sciatic lighting rod of nerves down my left leg. The taste of terror, fresh on my tongue. Insomnia muddled with the bitter taste of nightmare — a taste, I’ve grown accustom to as of late.
It’s 4:17 am
The stare of a stale moon peeks thru my westward facing bedroom window, beckoning for me to come blow cigarette smoke into its mystic fog. Considering my wanderlust for Lady Luna, I crawl from my nook and close the book in which has become my only companion in bed. I bookmark my place with an old note from a woman who used to cherish me, tucked between the sheathes which have been blistering my fingers; The author, one of my favorite poets, Don Blanding — Mr. Vagabond Man himself.
Treading carefully not to step on Gypson the cat, I make way thru our sun room which is dressed with a mixture of my roommate’s late grandma, Eunice’s vintage decor & her Grandpa’s bar; paired with my 1970’s mustard & burnt orange striped couch & paisley shape table from my old beach bungalow; An eclectic mix of oddity’s and rarity’s. (Imagine a hybrid of Cheers & That 70’s Show as a lounge)
A place where I love to sit and have a smoke while my fingers punch rapidly trying to keep up with my brain that spins & weaves whimsical words of wonder on my 1974 Smith Corona Galaxie Twelve typewriter. I know they hate the sound of it, but there is nothing more soothing than the sound of a vintage machine fluidly working as it did the day it made its way off the press; days where hands made machines, not machines making machines. My most prized possession.
I hop on my green 7 speed bicycle and make way into the brisk dark sky painted thick with damp fog toward the beach which sits blocks away from my quaint house in the neighborhood I grew up in, South Oceanside, Ca.
Coffee and Camel’s are my fuel of choice at this hour, blended with the sweet cream of Leonard Cohen’s “Stories of the Street” dripping it’s syrupy magic into my brain —there is absolutely nothing better than that combination at this hour. I’d choose that over laying in a warm bed with a beautiful naked woman, any day.
This time of hour is my favorite, it’s when my brain works best. Nobody around, just me and the night; the sound of the cream crashing waves and the scent of tired bonfires lingering in the air — It soothes my soul.
The beach is desolate and vast, all mine, yet I choose seclusion and a sacred cove where I find shelter as there is a storm about to hit shore any moment. A storm that’s been brewing for nearly a week. A storm — inside my soul. I take a deep breath and release the storm. My tears — crashing harder than hail on a tin roof; A thunderous cry roars from my lungs, releasing the fears and facing the reality of the future to come by the next dawn.
The anger that is festering inside me, is solely at myself. I cannot build a wall of resentments out of bricks of my own actions. I do have hurt, but it was self-inflicted. I do have endless questions, but I’m refrained from asking. I thought I had closure, but the wound was reopened. I’m trying to move onward, but my past keeps haunting me. My actions, also had reactions. Reactions, in which won’t let me move on & are holding me back; holding me back to the point of no option to progress, literally.
It’s hard to have your heart-broken twice, but I can deal with that – lovers come and lovers go. But, having to break up with your life in which you gave your blood, sweat and tears into is an entirely different thing.
As the sun starts to peak from the east and warm my tear frozen cheeks. I count the hours until I have to catch the train northbound to Ventura to stand in front of a man with a mallet whom knows nothing of how positive of a man I am, nor how helping, nurturing, loving & giving kind of man I am.
I will not cower to unjust & unruly minds.
I will not let corrupt systems break my dignity.
I will radiate force fields of protection & positivity
I will burn with courageous flames of integrity
I will not file spiritual bankruptcy.